


Token Alternative Universe

by Ook



Series: Token Gesture [4]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: AU of an AU, Author needs help, Blow Jobs, Charles wants you all to shut up, Erik's epic frustration is epic, First chapter contains references to child prostitution., Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hurt/Comfort, It came from Kernezelda's brain, Kernezelda is an enabling enabler who enables, M/M, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Rescue, Riding, Rimming, Slavery, Starting yet more things because why not., Threesome - M/M/M, Traumatising Sean's delicate sensibilities, UST, convenient sickness is convenient, devoted nursing, not the kind involving breasts, not the kind involving horses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 45,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ook/pseuds/Ook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU of my Token verse. <i>Someone</i> speculated about how pretty James McAvoy and Nicholas Hoult look together. And what could have happened if Hank had been enslaved in his youth, too, and had been with Charles when Erik et al acquired him. I read these comments. I thought about them...</p><p>Goddamnit, Kernezelda!</p><p>I had to run with it. So; a mash up of the Token storyline, here, with two slaves for the price of one. Plenty of angst, hurt/comfort, UST and happy endings for almost all.</p><p>Kernazelda beta'd this for me; the whole thing is her fault, although any remaining mistakes or typos are mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kernezelda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kernezelda/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Masters, meet your slaves.
> 
> Slaves, meet your masters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual dub and non con warnings apply. NO actually non con will appear on stage in this story, however, two characters have been slaves since their youth, and have no real concept of consent, let alone enthusiasm about the whole thing. And they may be creepy unpleasant people trying to take advantage of that. They won't suceed, but they'll try. 
> 
> I will warn for anything more specific.

They bought the slaves for his inspection early in the morning. Erik was still eating breakfast on the veranda of the inn. Moira had gone to chivvy the chambermaid over the state of their rooms, and Sean and Angel had not yet awoken. He’d warned them that Westchestrian wine was strong. But, it seemed, both Swords needed to learn by doing. It wasn’t a surprise to Erik; he knew both of the younger team member’s natures of old. Hangovers aside; they were reliable enough, and recognised the importance of their work in protecting Genosha and her royal family.

As did Erik, although there were times that his duty fell heavy on him. As it did now.  
“Why are you displaying slaves to me, Michal? I believe you understood our debt was payable in _coin_ ” he said, dryly, and took another bite of cheese. Erik looked out over the little line of five roped together people and prayed for strength.  
“Oh, yes, indeed, Master Eisenhardt.” The Westchestrian trader said, bowing obsequiously. “But we have- there’s a slight, a very slight liquidity problem, and, and we know you will be moving on soon, so- trade goods must be easy to transport and-

The trader’s voice faded as Erik stared. Two beautiful girls, barely- if he was any judge- fifteen. Pretty faces, sulky eyes and hair scarlet as a Muscovy banner. A twelve year old boy, scared green under his paint and showy clothes. And two young men, dark haired and blue eyed. Given the shadows in their faces and the jaded resignation in their eyes, Erik hoped they were in their twenties. They were not twins, as the redheads were; but they might have been brothers; both with lips red enough to start a fire and blue eyes deep enough to drown in. 

“What skills do they have?” he said, warily. Michal stared, for a moment, and then said  
“Ah, which-“ Michal gestured at the slaves.  
“All of them.” Erik said, with a sigh. Maybe if he spun this out long enough, Moira would come along and rescue them all from this bloody- His train of thought derailed abruptly as Michal’s words finally made sense.  
“The boy is trained, but untouched.” Michal said, strolling languidly from the porch to position himself behind the row of slaves. 

He clapped a hand on the child’s shoulder. “Very fine; good with his mouth, able to wait upon most folk- he’ll sell well in most larger towns- where did you say you were headed next?”  
“I didn’t.” Erik gritted out. . The boy held still under Michal’s grip, smile unmoving. He wanted to buy them all, and take them to Genosha, where they could be free, and safe. He wanted to kill the trader. He wanted to be _sick_

Michal moved along the row to stand behind the twin girls, draping his arms around their necks, fingers creeping down to caress their collarbones, the soft upper swells of their breasts. Like the boy, the girls’ smiles looked painted on, unaffected by his touch, the pair of them dead-eyed dolls under his hand.  
“The lasses, they have some skill in fine stitching and embroidery, and they have begun their bedroom work; they’re good separately or as a pair-“ he winked “I’ve tried them myself, believe you me, you’ll make a pretty penny renting them out and keep your fires warmed at the same time.” Erik did not let his expression shift by an inch.

“But- children-“ Erik said. _They’re children._ he wanted to yell at the other man.  
“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” Michal said. “They’ll likely not conceive for a year or two; especially if you only work their mouths during the most fertile period. And they’re from healthy stock; you can always sell the, ah, product on. Profit from pleasure.”  
At his side, out of Michal’s line of sight, his hand curled into a fist.

“Those two-“ Michal waved at the young men. “They’re a little old for personal use. But they’re skilled. Very skilled. Most brothels will buy them; after a demonstration or two.”  
“And do you have other skills?” Erik flung at them. Both slaves blinked, and exchanged a wary glance. “Well?” That came out in Genoshan; Michal’s eyes widened in puzzlement.  
“I have some clerical skills, Master.” The fairer-skinned one said, in reasonably fluent Genoshan. Erik blinked. “And Hank, ah, that is, he is good with horses. Master. We can also-”  
“Alright, enough.” Erik said, and the slave’s mouth snapped closed immediately.

Erik took a sip of wine. He had no real idea what to do. They were undercover, all of them, as they trailed back through what was left of the now- dead Sebastian Shaw’s spy network, re-establishing contacts and gathering information. No genuine trader would refuse payment simply because he didn’t like the coin it was offered in, he’d take the merchandise and sell them on. But Erik would not, could not do that, to human chattel. 

Apart from his conscience, he had his cover to think of. Slaves would be around them constantly; if he found himself able to sell them on afterwards, how would he prevent them reporting what they had seen? Westchestrians were a suspicious lot. One of the girl-children winked at him, and smiled, slowly, invitingly. Erik repressed a shudder. 

He noticed that the Genoshan-speaking one of the pair was clutching at the sleeve of the other slave, the one he’d named as Hank. Their knuckles were almost white, where they held on to each other. His gut-not his heart- twisted uncomfortably. They were frightened. Of Erik, or the situation, of Michal? Erik couldn’t tell.  
“Do all of them speak Genoshan?” He asked, in that language. Michal’s face fell.  
“They’re quick learners.” He volunteered, evasively. “And- you can hardly sell them in Genosha itself, can you?” His eyes brightened, and his head tilted. “Are such-“  
“There are no slaves in Genosha.” Erik said, firmly. “So, no market for you there.”

His eyes flicked back to the young men. One of them whispered a quick phrase; the other replied. Michal stood, approached them, frowning, and struck both of them with his cane as he pulled them apart.  
“You do not speak without permission, and you don’t use talk I don’t understand!” he snapped. “Sorry, Master Eisenhardt. They need a little discipline.” Erik nodded. He tried to keep his face blank, as he saw how still they stood under the beating. If that wasn’t discipline, what was?

 _He’ll sell us to the brothel. I’d rather die._ the not Hank-slave had said. _The Genoshans could still take us._ Hank had responded. In Genoshan.

Erik stared at them all, the children, the men, standing so quiet and desperate in the bright spring sunshine, and despaired. He couldn’t save them all. Who needed them the most? Who would be useful for their cover? His eyes went back to the oldest two. At least they could speak Genoshan, which mean conversations could be had with them that Westchestrians would likely not be able to follow. And at least they seemed to have more than just bedroom skills to their names.

“The innkeeper said we had visitors.” Erik turned to Moira with relief.  
“Michal cannot pay us in coin.” He said, rapidly, in Genoshan. “These are his attempts to settle the debt.” Moira’s eyes widened.  
“All of them?” she said, in Westchestrian. Michal laughed.  
“No, dear lady, no. One. And a discount, if you want to by the oth-“ His voice died in his throat as he caught sight of Moira’s expression.

“Indeed.” She said, crisply. “You offer us valuable goods, yes, but nothing we can sell immediately, to defray the bills your debt should have covered, and while we wait to sell them, they cost us their food and keeping.”  
“They can work. Bring in extra coin.” Michal said, and the bargaining began in earnest. The sun stayed bright. All the slaves stood perfectly still, and waited, only the slow rise and fall of their chests and the occasional blink revealing they were more than statues. Erik drank a gulp more wine. He turned to the pot boy, collecting dirty tankards, and said.  
“Fetch them water.”  
“Master?” the boy stared, blankly. 

Erik frowned, and then pointed at the little line of misery.  
“The sun is hot, boy. Fetch them water. All the water they can drink.” The boy gaped, until Erik flipped him a small coin- enough for a cake, or a trinket, and then he was off in a flash. Michal broke off from the bargaining to glance at Erik, curiously.  
“There is also the cost of transport to be considered.” Moira said, smoothly, and Michal turned back to her, in a second. Erik watched the potboy bring water to the slaves. All of them drank slowly, carefully, not risking cramp or vomiting by gulping. Erik’s gut- heart- twisted again.

“Both of them.” Moira said, pleasant and firm. “It’s a fair price.”  
“Madam, surely, you can see, they’re not really a matched set, they-“  
“Both. Of. Them.” Moira said, again. “Or my husband and I can go straight to the town hall and ask them to detain you until your debts are paid in full and satisfactory measure and kind.” Michal paled. The boy-slave bit back a grin. That action would kill any hope he had of riding out his temporary liquidity problem, and they all knew it. Michal smiled, ruefully.  
“Both of them, then, Madame. That will teach me to assume you Genoshans know nothing of bargaining for slaves.” He said, and pulled out a packet of papers.

A little reading, a little ink on parchment, and Erik found he was the owner of two human souls. 

“Who- who did you choose?” Erik said.  
“The ones who can speak Genoshan. They are older- I heard that line about the brothel-” She broke off. “You weren’t listening?” Erik shook his head.  
“I- I couldn’t decide.” He blinked at Moira.  
“Just because we can’t take them all doesn’t mean we can’t take some of them out of here, love.” She said, softly, in Genoshan. 

“These two are almost at the end of the line. We’ll be able to use them, without-” She broke off. Erik nodded. He could follow her reasoning. Although the children were a pathetic sight, too, they could not take them all. Sometimes being a spy led to terrible choices, and this was one of them. There was no way in the world that anyone in the party would actually make use of the child slaves’ skills, and having them hanging about, neither sold nor employed would cause questions. Whereas two multi skilled, older slaves, who spoke their language- it would make sense, to the Westchestrians.

Michal unlocked the young men from the line, and pushed them towards Erik and Moira.

“I’ve a good number of chains and shackles; if you need them.” He said, almost leering, a greasy little reptile of a man, despite his smart clothing.  
“We won’t.” Erik said, steadily, keeping his voice – and his desire to do violence – under control. The two men slowly approached and then stopped at the foot of the porch steps. Michal ambled off, along with the rest of the slaves. Erik stood up, and both slaves flinched almost imperceptibly. Erik sat down again.

“Hello.” Moira said. “I am Magda Eisenhardt. This man is Erik, my husband.” Erik nodded at them. They didn’t make a sound, blank faced and wary..  
“Now, before we get some food into you.” Moira said, clapping hands for the potboy. “Which of you is Charles, and which of you is Hank?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to know each other starts here.

“I am called Hank, mistress.” Said one of the two slaves, and pointed to himself.  
“Charles, mistress.” This one’s eyes were a brighter blue, revealed in the quick glance accompanying his soft-spoken reply. They looked nervous and – strained- Erik thought. The cheap, shoddy clothes they were wearing would not be enough once they left the town, and almost as much as the slave tags round their necks, advertised their status and vulnerability to the world. Erik frowned, mentally. That would have to be the first thing they dealt with, then, well, that and the hunger he could see clearly in all their features. Why had they been starved? Poorly fed workers worked poorly; that was axiomatic.

The potboy arrived, clearly wondering what the eccentric foreign guests were going to do next. He didn’t even look at the slaves trying tnot to huddle together in the sun.  
“Ah, good.” Said Moira. “We need soup, bread, and cheese, for two please.”  
“M-magda.” Erik said, when the boy had gone. “Aren’t you eating?” She smiled, and shook her head. “I have breakfasted already. They look simply starved, poor things.” Both the boys- men, Erik corrected himself; they were grown men- looked abashed.  
“Hardly your fault.” He said to them. “And it’s easily rectified.” They blinked at him, bewildered.   
“Master.” One of them- Charles, he thought- said, faintly.

Erik’s irritation flared. What was so strange about feeding someone who was hungry, anyway? Moira caught his eye and smiled, ruefully.  
“We’ll work it out.” She said, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. They could not, of course, talk about Genosha, or how their roles would have to change to maintain the cover stories to include two rather shabby and worried slaves, in front of said slaves, but the look she gave him was a speaking one. Moira was a good partner to work with, Erik thought. Reliable. As long as he remembered to call her Magda, that was.

The boy was back, quickly, juggling soup and bread on a tray. He looked to Moira for guidance.  
“Come up on the porch, out of the sun, and eat.” Moira said, firmly but kindly, to the two slaves. They shuffled closer, steps slow and timorous, elbows not quite brushing.  
“Sit, if you want to.” Erik pointed at the long bench where he’d broken his fast. “You’ve done enough standing.” There was some more staring. Erik thought he might grow bored with it, over time. But they sat docilely enough when he waved at them, so. At least they could follow instructions.  
“I’m sorry it’s soup; in such hot weather.” Moira said, handing them the bowls and spoons. “But at least it’s easy to digest.”

“Thank you mistress.” They both husked, at once.   
“Eat.” Erik said, and tried not to wince as he saw them consume soup, bread, and cheese in the same steady, careful way that they’d drunk the water, earlier. Not too slowly, lest the have it taken away too soon. And not too fast, in case they became ill.  
“I woke the children. And ordered more food.” Moira said. “They’ll be down, presently.”  
“Time for introductions.” Erik said. “And warnings.” He added in an undertone, to Moira. Hank looked up, nervously.  
“We- we’re obedient, master.” He said, and the other slave hissed at him to shut up.  
“I’m sure you are.” Erik said, blankly. Why would he think otherwise? 

Moira caught the slaves’ eyes  
“He meant, the other members of the family.” she clarified. “We’re Genoshan; we haven’t owned slaves before. Genosha doesn’t permit slavery.” Both slaves stared in wonder at the idea.  
“So we’ll need to think about it a bit. And the children will need instructions, in working with you.” Erik said, and both slaves froze up again as they were addressed, dropping their hands into their laps instead of continuing to eat. Moira frowned at him. “Any questions?” Erik said.  
“Questions, master?” Charles replied politely, as soft-spoken as before 

“About us.” Erik said.   
“We’d never be so impertinent, master.” Hank said, shoulders hunched inward, his eyes widening. Erik stifled a sigh. He was not at all sure how two such meek, terrified slaves would get on, in Genosha. Still, that was months away, Erik reminded himself, as the sound of footsteps grew louder.   
“Eat,” he commanded, and they quickly took up their spoons again. “Angel. Sean.” He said, cheerfully, as they winced their way into bright sunlight. followed shortly by the potboy carrying their breakfasts on a tray. 

After they’d arranged themselves further up the table, Erik directed their bleary attention away from their plates to the two young men huddled on the bench across from the traders. “Meet the new members of our team.” The two young Swords stared like stunned oxen as the slaves set aside the bowls of soup in fear. Angel smiled at both the young men; she caught Moira’s eye and stopped, fidgeting with the shawl that helped conceal her wings, instead. Sean yawned, openly, and scratched at his stubble.

“This is Hank.” Erik said “and this is Charles.” Both of them made respectful bobs of the head and nervous, no eye contact smiles. “Oh.” Erik said, remembering Michal’s foul list of skills and ideas. “If either of you attempt to touch either of them in a manner you would not do in front of our dear old Aunt Lucy, I will remove your fingers- or whichever part of your body you used- with a couple of rocks.”  
“I-I-“ Charles said. “M-m-master- I, we-“ If he had looked scared before, now he looked terrified. Hank shivered.

“Not you.” Sean said, hastily, horrified. “Uncle’s threatening us. Isn’t he?”  
“Yes.” Moira confirmed it with a firm nod. As am I. Go on eating, if you’re still hungry, please.” Both slaves picked up their bowls again.  
“I- we’d- if you “touch” someone like that-“ said Angel, who was very sure what Erik was driving at and did not like the implication that he considered her capable of it “Someone who doesn’t want it, that’s rape!” Hank snorted into his soup. Charles ducked his head over his bread. Erik nodded.

“Yes.” He said. “In Genosha, it is. And I think we wish to act as if we were so, as much as is possible.” There was a short silence, an accepting one from Sean and Angel, a bewildered one from Charles and Hank.  
“I own you.” Erik said, to Hank and Charles as the young Swords resumed their meal. “But I do not intend to- to hurt you. Work well and, well, we’ll all try to get along.” He folded the papers of ownership up- and as head of the trading family, they had been made out to him alone- and placed them in his pocket.  
“Now.” Moira stood and drained her cup. She spoke with the resigned tone of someone used to repeating instructions. “What are your tasks for today?”

“I’m to visit the dyer.” Angel said. She turned to the slaves. “How much should a good blue dye cost in this town?” Hank blinked, squinting.  
“Not more than four silvers the ounce.” Charles said, calmly. “But make sure you’re buying true blue, or get them to take the cost of the mordant out of the price. Red, twice that. Black-“ he faltered, looking around at the circle of rapt faces. “Pardon, mistress. Mistress Angel.”  
“What for?” Erik said. “She asked, you answered.”  
“I guess I get to wrestle with the bookkeeping.” Sean said “ugh.” Erik sighed.

“This time don’t subtract where you should be adding, and it should be fine.” Erik said. “And do it after you’ve taken these two to the bathhouse.”  
“I’ll look out fresh clothes. And shoes.” Moira said, with a sharp glance at the strips of cloth wrapping Hank’s feet. He flushed, and tried to tuck them more securely under his body.  
“Ah- the bathhouse, master?” Charles said, very carefully. “Will you be hosting a, a gathering or a p-party?”  
“No.” Moira said, frowning slightly. “Why?” Charles shrank into himself  
“Forgive me, mistress, master. I thought- I assumed- You asked Master Sean t-t-to-“

“Oh.” Erik said. “No, I thought- well, it’s been a long morning; and- well, you’re ours, now I thought- you both might like a bath. Just a bath.” Both slaves gave him a steady courteous stare that, without being the slightest bit rude, managed to convey the fact they clearly thought Erik had lost his wits, had he possessed any to start with.  
“What?” he said.  
“Town ordinances, master.” Hank said; eyes lowered again. “S-slaves are forbidden the bathhouses, unless entertaining freepersons, except the hours between curfew bell and dawn. And only then if a free person is there to supervise and control them.

“Oh.” Erik said. “Damn.” Both slaves flinched. Erik bit back a curse. Either they’d realise they weren’t going to be beaten, or they wouldn’t. Telling them he wasn’t going to wouldn’t get them anywhere.  
“Get the innkeeper to heat up the water for a couple of baths.” Angel said. “Simple. Not as thorough as the bathhouse, or as fun-“  
“No fragrant oils. No massages.” Sean said, sadly. Hank perked up.   
“Ah, master, I’m able to give massages.” He offered. Sean perked up, in turn.  
“I _will_ use the rocks, Sean.” The young man slumped again at Erik’s quiet reminder. Hank shrank back into himself.

“I’ll go set that up.” Moira said, smiling, and headed back into the inn proper. Angel squinted at the sky.  
“Time I was gone.” She smiled at Charles. “Four silver, you said?”  
“For true blue. Less if it needs fixing to be colourfast.” Charles said, and smiled back at her.  
“Thanks.” She said, and turned to go.  
“Be back as early as you can.” Erik said. “We move on in two days, there’s a lot to get done today and tomorrow.”  
“Yes, Uncle.” Angel said. Smiling, she bent to give Erik the kiss of family, and left.

Erik and Sean looked at Hank and Charles.   
“Sean.” He said. “Go find something useful to do til the bathing’s done.”  
“I’ll check on the horses.” Sean said. “We’re going to need more, aren’t we?” He left. Charles jumped up.  
“I- with your permission, I can take the, the trays back to the kitchen.” He said, staring at the ground.   
“Go ahead.” Erik said. Charles fled, leaving Erik in his seat on the veranda of the inn, staring vaguely at Hank, who slipped off the bench now that the table was clear, and settled himself near Erik’s feet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These Genoshans are crazy.
> 
> Crazy!

The room was plain, and bare, as befitted a washroom in a moderate inn. The flagged stone floors and the small windows kept it cool, almost cold, even in the warmer weather. The two tubs and three stools filled only one corner. Absently, Hank wondered what other purposes they put it to when it wasn’t being commandeered by eccentric foreigners who wanted to wash their slaves in privacy. Charles stared at the bath. It steamed at him, peaceably. He turned his head and caught Hank’s own bewildered gaze. Why had they been left alone?  
“Do you think they’re listening?” Hank hissed. Charles shook his head.

,A little louder, “I think they’re crazy.” They both winced.   
“Why would they lurk; they know they can get anything they want by asking.” Charles said at the same volume, quickly.” They waited. Nothing.  
“Charles these are people- masters- who think their slaves need a hot bath in privacy; instead of using a bucket in the stable yard; who _knows_ what they think they know or can do?” Hank wrung his hands. “We’ve no way of modelling or predicting their behaviour!”  
“Genoshans.” Charles reminded him, as he wandered over to stick a cautious finger in the nearest tub. “Not used to slaves. Start there.”

“Indeed.” Hank agreed with a sigh. He sat on the floor and began the tedious process of unwrapping the cloths around his strange feet. “How long before they learn?” Charles shrugged.  
“Who knows? Who knows how long before we’re sold on, anyway. The big man-“  
“Master Eisenhardt-“  
“He didn’t like the younger ones. Didn’t like the paint and the gaudy stuff; maybe this” he waved at the private room, the baths- “is just a reflection of that. Stripping us of previous taint?”

“They didn’t seem that prudish to me.” Hank said. “I men, the big man didn’t like it when they smiled at him, but maybe he just likes subtlety.”   
“I will crush your body parts with rocks?” Charles said, faintly pointedly. “That’s not the phrasing of a subtle man. That was a warning to us as much as to them; you know that.” They both heard approaching footsteps at the same time. Charles turned to the bath and began pulling his shirt off, hastily. Hank left the wrappings and began unlacing his own shirt. Someone knocked on the door.

“Hello?” They both recognised the voice, even if it sounded strangely muffled. Master Sean. “Can I come in?” Hank and Charles stared at each other again.   
“Crazy?” Charles mouthed at Hank.  
“Master?” Hank said, worriedly. Sean poked his head round the door, eyes shut.  
“Can I come in? Soap, and towels, and clothes!”  
“Ah… yes, master?” Hank said. Charles squared his shoulders. Sean stumbled in, arms full of clothes, and clutching a small bag between his teeth.

Hank leapt up, stumbling slightly, and hurried to help his master. Sean beamed at him, spat the bag out on top of the bundle in his arms and placed a stack of clothes on one chair.  
“That’s a relief.” He said, happily, and beamed at Hank. “Thanks.”  
“Master.” Hank kept his eyes lowered. Sean frowned a little.  
“The towels are on top.” He said, in a friendly fashion, and wandered over to the tubs. A small silence grew as Sean inspected the baths. Hank and Charles watched him, still and silent.

“You know.” Sean said, after a pause. “Uncle M really meant it, about the rocks. You don’t have to worry.”  
“Yes Master.” Charles said. “Ah… Uncle M?” he dared to enquire.  
“Oh- Magnus. Max for short. Magda’s his wife.” Sean said. “Me and Angel are cousins, and this is our first trading trip out of Genosha. Uncle M’s done it before, but not to Westchester. Charles nodded; that all the Eisenhardts were pleasantly ignorant of Westchesterian customs was very, very obvious.

Sean raised his head, smiling. Has he moved away from the tubs, he caught sight of Charles’ shirtless back. His eyes went very wide, and his jaw dropped. He froze, staring like a youth confronted with his first look at adult nudity. Hank didn’t understand it. True, there were bruises, but not many- Michal tended to remember the merchandise was for sale, not sampling. The finger prints over Charles’ hips would fade quickly; they only looked dramatic because Charles himself was so pale. 

Charles’s back in general was scarcely an arousing sight, anyway, unless the master in question had fairly specific tastes which Hank prayed that Sean- prayed that all the Eisenhardts- lacked. His first owner’s ineptitude with a whip was written all over Charles’s skin, in a wide and curling pattern of silvery scars. Not for the first time, Hank thanked his stars he had been too young to remember his freedom when he was first sold. Charles had been thirteen; and his training had been difficult and badly done. Charles stepped back, quickly, and went pale. Paler.  
“Master.” He said, and dropped to one knee.

Sean continued to gape like a half-wit for a moment, before shaking his head like a dog. Hank and Charles shared a glance of mutual bewilderment.  
“Please... get up.” Sean scratched his neck, furiously. He kept his eyes locked onto Charles’s face. Charles stood. “That- that should be everything. Aunt M, says, says, she’ll need to measure your feet for shoes.” Sean backed away, to the door. “When you’re done.” He said. “And, uh... take as long as you like?” And he fled, closing the door behind him. They blinked.

“Do you think he noticed my feet?” Hank wiggled one anxiously, watching the hastily re-wrapped cloth fall apart. “I don’t- they could still take us back, we’re both flawed, and-“  
“They’re moving on.” Charles said, almost calmly, as he stripped off his trousers. “They’re in a hurry. Keep them covered a bit longer and we’ll be fine.” Naked, he padded over to the pile and examined it, curiously. “These are good clothes.” A white shape fluttered out of the pile; Charles stared at it.

“Are those smallclothes?” Hank said, startled. Charles caught his eye. Suddenly they were both grinning. “They’ve actually-“ Hank snorted.

“I know!” Charles said, walked towards the tubs. “Hot baths, knocking on doors, underwear- and all for slaves. It’s almost sweet.” He stepped into the bath with a sigh. The water was warm, and kind to tense limbs as he sank into it.  
“Yes, but- this kind of, of,” Hank faltered, as he headed to his own tub. It wasn’t ignorance, precisely. He couldn’t find the right word to describe their treatment so far. He went on. “We’ll get into bad habits. Forget our training. And when we’re sold on-”  
“That.” Charles said, very clearly. “Is not something I am ever going to be able to do.” 

He looked at the bathwater covering his knees. “And you’ve got a good memory, or I wouldn’t have been able to teach you to read.” He whispered the last word; Hank still caught himself looking at the door, fearful of eavesdroppers.  
“True.” Hank said. He grabbed the soap, and began to wash himself, quickly. He stopped, as he made a discovery. “Charles.” He said. “This soap is scented.”  
“Maybe it’s all they have?” Charles offered, without much hope.  
“Doesn’t smell bad, though-“  
“You can’t judge what people like in bed from the perfume they like on their slaves.” Charles said.

Charles slid under the water, to scrub at his short, stubbly hair. He hoped he wouldn’t have to grow it much. It was hard to keep clean, as a slave, and dirty hair was a easy excuse for a blow. Also, it could be pulled on.   
“Sometimes I wish I was bald.” He said when he surfaced, spluttering.  
“Your scalp would burn.” Hank objected, running a sudsy hand over his own shorn locks. “You’re too fair.” Charles nodded. “Need a hand with your back?”  
“Please.” Charles was not as flexible as Hank was; flexibility being part of Hank’s Gift, along with strength- and his hand-like feet. 

Hank rose from his tub, and padded over.  
“Don’t drip on the floor.” Charles warned.   
“We can mop it, after.” Hank knelt at the side of the tub “Lean forwards.” He rubbed the worryingly sweet-scented soap over Charles’s back, and wondered which one of them would be sent for first. And by who.   
“They’re married, they might be interested in sharing.” Charles replied, eyes closed as he began to relax under Hank’s ministrations. 

Hank jerked his hands away from soaped, wet flesh. Charles’ telepathic Gift had been almost completely burned out of him by the shaking fever but skin-to-skin contact left him vulnerable to surface thoughts.   
“Sorry.” He said, and scooped up water to rinse his friend off. “All done.”  
“Thank you.” Charles said, and smiled at him, a small and genuine curve of bitten lips. “Listen, Hank.” He said, as Hank went for the towels. “As long as we’re careful, and remember our place- it won’t be too bad. I think Master Magnus wants to think of himself as a good person.”

“Those ones always hate it when they do get angry with us.” Hank pointed out. “And then they hit twice as hard, once for whatever’s been done wrong, and once for making them want to hit us.”  
“True.” Charles stepped out of the bath, carefully. “Still-“ he smiled. “smallclothes.”

Hank found himself grinning helplessly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shoes are important, you know.
> 
> As are smiles.

Charles tugged at the soft, thick material of his new trousers, curiously.   
“Are they new?” Hank shook his head.  
“Look at the seams- see how the thread colour has faded because it holds the colour different to the material?”  
“You’ve got good eyes.” Charles said, not for the first time.   
“And a linen shirt.” Hank said, with wonder. “They really, really don’t know how to dress us, do they? I mean, we could be free labourers, clothed like this.”

“Better put your tag over the neckline of the shirt.” Charles said, thoughtfully, pulling his own tag out. “We don’t want anyone claiming we’re trying to pass.” Hank nodded. He picked a bit of fluff from the shoulder of Charles’ shirt. Like his own, it was clean, fresh and made of hard wearing, comfortable cloth. There had even been _socks_ , although neither slave wore them. Charles was afraid of falling, in the hard polished floorboards of the inn, and Hank still wanted to keep his feet concealed in wrappings until their masters couldn’t send them back.

“Do you think we should prepare ourselves?” Hank said. Charles shook his head.  
“I did manage to… find some oil in the kitchen, but I don’t- best not to, not yet.” He said. “We don’t know how they’ll want us. I think they might want to pretend to seduction.”  
“What makes you think that?” Hank’s brows knit together. “They’ve not exactly-“  
“Because, they _are_ new to the idea of owning slaves.” Charles said. “New masters are-“  
“A lot of new masters need to think their attentions are desired.” Hank said, in agreement. “Old ones, too.” Charles was wry. “And that means at least a pretence at spontaneity.”

“Come on then.” Hank said. “Let’s go find our masters.”  
“Can’t _believe_ they left us unsupervised this long.” Charles muttered.  
“Maybe Master Sean is skin-shy.” Hank smoothed his hands along the sides of the soft fabric of his shirt, his trousers. Charles shrugged. He glanced back over the bathing room- tidy again, and only a little damp, and cracked the door open. No one was waiting outside.  
“ _I hate it when they just expect us to deliver ourselves up like this_ ” he muttered. Charles glanced at him.  
“Where could we run to? They think we prefer slavery to death- are they wrong?”  
“Not yet.” Hank said.

They went in search of their masters, and found the head of the family back on the veranda he had been eating in when Michal brought them all along. He had an ale at his elbow, but he didn’t seem to be drunk yet.   
“Looking better.” He greeted them, seeming as cheerful about it as if it were his own personal achievement.  
“Thank you, master.” Hank said, sincerely. Master Magnus frowned, but he made no move towards them.  
“For-for the clothes.” Charles said, hastily. 

“Right.” He clapped his hands and the pot boy appeared again. “Feed them.” He said, simply, pointing at Hank and Charles. The potboy looked at the slaves. They looked back at him.  
“Make sure there’s meat in it!” the master shouted at the boy’s feeling back. “Hope he heard me.” He said turning back to Charles and Hank. “Too thin.” He muttered eyeing them critically. Charles blinked. He really hoped Eisenhardt didn’t have a need for his slaves to be fat, like Duke Victor had. He’d never been owned by such a man; but he’d seen the ruin and pain that came from a master wanting to sculpt his slaves physical appearance, if it went too far.

“Feet.” The man blurted, and Charles privately reappraised how much he might have had to drink during the hasty bath. “Got to measure your feet.” He added, more calmly. “For shoes.”  
“It’s not- most slaves here go barefoot, master, except in winter.” Hank stated, worry softening his voice. Charles could feel him trembling, very faintly, against his arm.   
“You’ll be doing too much travelling. Don’t want you to get injured, or, or footsore” The master said, curtly. “Also, shoes look…better.” He retreated back into his ale.  
“Travelling, master?” Charles asked, trying to look guileless.

“When Sean and Angel return, we will discuss our planned route and speed. We’ll need to rethink some of it, now that there’s six of us.”  
“Oh.” Hank said. Privately, he wondered if the routes would need to be re planned to go through towns with bigger slave markets or richer buyers, or if they already had a means of disposal or profiting from their inconvenient slaves planned out.  
“Yes.” The master said, stiffly. Still, he did not cuff either of them for inquisitiveness or talk. Instead, he pulled out a piece of parchment, and laid on the floor. 

“Stand on that.” He said. Charles swallowed. He moved, before Hank could say anything, and stood on the parchment. Eisenhardt pulled out a beautiful steel-nibbed pen. Charles did his best to stand very, very still. He couldn’t think what the man intended, but he doubted it was-  
Magnus pushed away from the table, and dropped to his knees besides Charles’ toes. He dipped his pen in ink from the table, and drew, lightly, on the parchment, carefully sketching the outline around Charles’ feet. Charles stared down and the crisp auburn hair of his master, and wondered. Magnus glanced up, and Charles shied away from direct eye contact. It would be insolent. Magnus’s measure the depth and thickness of Charles’ feet with a small metal tape measure, and marked them down carefully on the paper. His fingers were very warm.

“Hank.” Magnus said, and pointed to the paper. Hank’s eyes squeezed shut, in reflexive despair, before he shuffled forwards, obedient. Charles sank back on the bench, and held hi breath.  
“I need to take these wraps off, or the shoes won’t fit.” Magnus said, still kneeling before his slaves. “Lift your foot.” Hank lifted one foot, and swayed, slightly. Magnus paused his unwinding of Hank’s footbindings long enough to take Hank’s hand and plant it firmly on Magnus’ own shoulder. “Don’t fall over.” he said, curtly, apparently unaware of the gross impropriety of what he was doing. Hank stared at Charles over his master’s head, torn between fear and amazement.

The final cloth fell away, and Hank instinctively clenched his foot, fearful. Magnus made no comment on his weirdly shaped foot, simply moving it to the parchment, saying;  
“Relax, I can’t get a good measurement.” Hank instantly flattened his foot out, and Eisenhardt drew around it and measured it as he had for Charles. “Other foot.” He said, and, numb with astonishment, Hank obeyed. Again, his eyes met Charles’. 

No disgust. No indignation that Michal had cheated him, unloading a flawed slave onto an unsuspecting businessman. No fear of the Gifted. No frantic interest or sick desire, either. As if this man met many with Gifts, so many that a slave with a Gift was nothing worth commenting on.  
“And done.” Magnus said. “Go sit down.” 

Hank shuffled backwards to the bench. He didn’t say anything. “If we take you to the cobbler’s, they’ll likely try and fob us off with cheap trash like the clothes you were wearing before.” Magnus continued, apparently to them, rather than simply thinking out loud “I’m tired, and we don’t have time for the ensuing fight so- we’ll order these like this. They’ll be quick-made, not long lasting, but they’ll save you from blisters and cuts, I hope.” 

He had an astonishingly pleasant smile, Charles thought, dazed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles and Hank reflect on their new life, and CHarles gets touched by a free person he doesn't like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW- Charles gets groped around the face in this chapter; by someone who is utterly aware he is a slave and can't say no.

The stable was dim and cool. It was not too crowded, Charles thought with relief, as he settled the last of their horses into its stall. And at least they were not due to stay long in this place. Only until the weather mended a little, as the thunderstorms made the going muddy and slow, and the noises scared the horses. Horses that he and Hank as well as the other four rode. Further Genoshan practicality - or weirdness, as one chose. For the two- two horses, not having to share- were as good a quality as the ones the Eisenhardts rode, almost, as was their tack. Just like the clothes and the food. 

Mistress Magda had said that buying cheap things that wore out was a false economy; but if that was the case why had they accepted slaves, even for a debt? And why weren’t they putting them to more use; why were they making no attempts to hire them out? Hank had wondered the same thing, late at night, when they curled around each other for warmth- at least until one of their masters made them move closer to the fire, and talking had to stop.

They ate with their masters all the time, travelling. A week. They had only belonged to the Eisenhardts for a _week_ and they were already drifting into minor bad habits. Only yesterday, Charles had taken a second portion of stew, and he hadn’t even asked permission. Charles shook his head as he curried the second packhorse. When they had made camp in the open, on the journey between one town and the next, it had not seemed so obvious. 

Now, however, back in civilisation, his and Hank’s new flaws were glaringly apparent. Charles’ face stung, where the free ostler had struck him for looking too directly at him. It wasn’t painful, not really, but it was- it had been- strangely shocking; he had forgotten _so fast_ that eye contact led to blows.  
“Should help me remember.” he said ruefully to Hank, the next stall over. Hank nodded.

“It won’t scar, that’s the main thing.” Hank tried to sound reassuring. “It’ll fade pretty soon.”  
“It doesn’t seem to matter to them what we look like.” Charles stroked his- no, the Eisenhardt’s horse’s neck. It flicked an ear at him, mildly. “No fingers of any sort have been laid on me or you.”  
“Maybe they all have a horror of sex, or something.” Hank mused.  
“Where would all the little Genoshans come from?” Charles asked, unimpressed with Hank’s idea.

“Not all of them, just ours.” Hank said, a little defensively. “Just Magnus and Magda, maybe-“  
“Yes- the other two could just have a horror of rocks.” They shared a grin; Magnus had not had to repeat his threat of rock-inflicted violence; but neither had he approached either of them for services more personal than pulling off his boots; and he was as likely to ask Sean as he was to ask Hank or Charles.   
Nor had his wife, although Hank had noticed they slept in separate beds, or bedding, when camping. 

The horse- Master Magnus’ own- flung up a head and snorted. Hank murmured soothingly to it. Charles began to pack up the currycombs. He slipped his lucky token from the roll of equipment where he’d hidden it earlier, and popped it in his pocket. Slave clothing didn’t have pockets, but they were another useful thing Charles felt he should not get used to. He was hungry; and he allowed himself to pay attention to it, seeing as he knew his owners would feed him: a rare confidence to have. But then, their owners were Genoshan, and possibly crazy.

“Hey there, Blue Eyes. New in the inn?” called a lazy, drawling voice. A tall, stout man leaned on the door to Charles’ stall, smiling and hungry. Charles looked up, and all the warning flags he’d ever noticed fluttered from this stranger. Dangerous eyes. Dangerous hands. And a dangerous interest in either himself or Hank. Charles began to think, very quickly. Hank was obviously still busy. Charles was not. Both of them were alone; at least ‘til someone came to fetch them for supper. He’d have to play for time, but not so much this stranger got angry.

“I’m p- I belong to the Eisenhardt trading party, master” he said, careful. “We arrived today.” Charles resisted the temptation to check his tags were visible; he always made sure they were. The punishments for passing - he didn’t want to be branded, or flogged again.   
“We?” The stranger smiled” “Your master…” he trailed off, invitingly.  
“Master Magnus Eisenhardt.” Hank said quietly. “This is his horse.” He added as the stranger looked over to him, lips pursed.

The stranger held the door to the stall open. “Come out of there. I want a better look at you.” Charles walked forward No way out. No options. He flicked Hank a glance as he walked past.

“So. Your master, Magnus, yes.” He gave Hank a small nod. He slid a hand along Charles’ face, cupping his jaw and let his fingers trail over the leaping pulse point in Charles’ neck. Charles did not dare not close his eyes. He felt a little cold. He hated it, when this had to be done. 

“Hmm, excitable.” The stranger said, pleased. “Do you know if he’s interested in selling or trading either of you?” Charles controlled his convulsive flinch with an effort. The stranger pressed, lightly against his jugular vein, and Charles swallowed.  
“No, master.” Charles said, woodenly. He began to turn inwards, tucking his mind away from the experiences his body was probably about to undergo.  
“No, Master?” The grip on Charles’s throat turned tight, punishing. “No, you don’t know, or no, he isn’t interested?

“No, he’s not for sale, neither of them are.” 

Angel’s voice cut into the frozen moment. “What do you think you’re doing?” The stranger turned slightly toward her, smiling a wide, easy smile. The grasp on Charles’ throat slackened, and he drew a grateful breath. Angel cocked her head and shot an unimpressed look in the stranger’s direction, hands on hips. Charles felt himself begin to relax, just a little, and wondered why.  
“Ah, ma’am, are you one of the Eisenhardt traders? Who would I negotiate with for a trial, or to hire one of your slaves for an evening?”

Angel gave him a long, level look.

“My uncle is the head of the party. But these two are not for sale. They’re late; we’ve other work to do.” Angel jerked her head and Hank moved quickly to join her.   
Charles took a sideways step. The stranger did not let go until Angel stretched out her arm and dragged Charles away from him. He was so eager to go, he stumbled over his own feet. Angel held him upright.  
“I’ll make it worth your while.” The stranger offered, smiling. Angel didn’t look at him as she urged Hank and Charles in front of her.  
“Speak to my uncle, then.” Angel scowled. “If you won’t listen to me.” She hurried Hank and Charles outside.

“Sorry about that,” she said, incomprehensibly. “Are you both alright?”

Hank answered immediately; “Yes, mistress.” Angel sighed. Charles gripped his lucky token tight in his pocket and nodded. He didn’t yet trust himself to speak. Angel looked at him, narrow eyed. He took a tight, shaking breath.  
“Yes, mistress.” Charles said, softly. “What other work did you need us for?” Angel blinked.   
“I didn’t. I just wanted to get you both safely out of there without any shouting. The horses all looked done, so-” She broke off. Both slaves stared blankly at her.

“Come on.” Angel rested a hand on both of their shoulders. “Suppertime.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is some more groping of the unwilling, and Erik demonstrates what he can do to said groper without rocks or a revealing display of his metal-bending Gift.
> 
> TW: Non consenusal touching of a person who feels they can't say no.

The tavern room of the travellers’ hostel was warm and well lit. He was glad to get out of the rain and into dry clothing, but Erik still felt a little uneasy when his- when the two slaves were out of sight, especially when they were around so many other free Westchestrians. Neither slave seemed to know how to look after themselves at all; Erik felt the responsibility of ownership very keenly. The past week had been full of little eye-opening moments that testified to the damage Westchester could do to its children, if they were unlucky enough to become slaves.

The pair had small habits, little tricks that turned Erik’s stomach to contemplate why or how they’d been learned. When they travelled, he had seen that neither Charles nor Hank would approach the campfire, or the food, if the rest of the party were there, unless first ordered, even when there was plenty of space and enough food to go round. They seemed to not be able to look anyone in the eye; although that one was wearing off nicely, around Genoshans, anyway, Erik thought with an inner smile of satisfaction.

A grunt of puzzlement caught his attention, and he looked over to where Moira was tutoring Sean in the intricate art of bookkeeping.  
“Well, how’re the books coming?” Erik asked He had required Sean to keep a copy of their account books for his own improvement. It had been an inspired idea, if Erik did say so himself, because Sean learnt more about figures and what could be done with them without despoiling the actual accounts.

Sean groaned sadly “Can I finish them after we eat? I’m starving.”  
“All right.” Erik agreed, resigned. “Get Charles and Hank to go over them with you.”  
“Can they-“  
“Charles has clerical skills, he said so,” Moira reminded the boy. “And Hank might have, as well as being gifted when it comes to managing horses.” Moira closed the books and put away the pens, gracefully, keeping a watchful eye on the rest of the tavern inhabitants. A serving girl appeared, bearing hot pies, carrots and a smile. Sean leapt up to take the heavy tray from her, and they spoke briefly. She grinned before flitting away for her next load.

“Sean…” Moira raised an eyebrow   
He held up his hands, laughing.  
“She’s free, I checked.”  
“I can still find a pair of rocks.” Erik said, meaningfully.  
Angel appeared in the doorway, dragging the two reluctant slaves behind her. Eyes flashing, she marched up to the table.  
“Something’s happened.” Moira noted, sotto voce. “What’s wrong, dear?” Angel shook her head.  
“Later. Oh, sit down, guys, I don’t care what Westchestrian tradition it is that says you don’t eat with us. It’ll be the same food, just colder.” Hank and Charles sat, stiffly, on the long bench. Angel slid in beside Sean.

The food was distributed; pies and vegetables for all. The serving girl came back with a tray of ale; but she stopped short when she saw the two slaves seated with their owners. Erik looked at her, and she dropped her eyes and passed the drinks to the free people at the table, as if the slaves might bite or be catching in some form. For a short time there was no conversation, only eating and drinking.

“Angel.” Erik caught her eye “What happened?”  
“It- -it wasn’t anything important, Mistress. Master.” Charles said, eyes low.  
“He had his hands all over you!” Angel disputed, hotly. Charles flinched. She turned to Erik “And he asked me if they were for sale.”  
“I trust you told him they were not for sale or for touching.” Erik said. He was oddly moved as well as surprised by the sheer relief on Hank and Charles’ faces. Did they appear to be such a haven, or had the two Westchestrians seen something about the stranger they did not like?

“I did. Slimeball. Creep. Told him to talk to you, to make him let Charles go.” Angel bit at a carrot viciously. Erik frowned.  
“I’m sure he would have paid you for our use.” Hank supplied, helpfully. Half of Erik’s mouthful of ale went down the wrong way. “He did- he did mention a trial, or, or hiring us for the evening.” Charles stared at the table. Erik wheezed, and then drew a long, slow, breath.

“Are you- you’re trying to reassure me?” Erik said. “It’s all right if people sexually assault you because they’ll give your owners money?” Both slaves stared at him. Erik closed his eyes. “Westchester. Why don’t they give _you_ the money?”  
“We don’t own them. Bodies, voices, actions?” Hank said, suddenly seeing the misunderstanding. “You own them all.”  
“What?” Sean blurted. 

Charles turned to look at him, eyes shadowed.  
“Slaves don’t own anything in this world, except for the space behind their eyes and between their ears.” He said, kindly. “It’s-it’s the first thing we learn.”  
“Erk.” Sean’s face showed what he thought of that. “Wait, actions?”  
“If one of us was to break a law…”  
“Not that we would, of course.” Hank added, quickly.  
“You would be charged with the crime; either you’d ordered us to do it, or didn’t stop us, so.” Charles ran out of breath, and ducked his head to eat another bite of pie. 

“Of course.” Erik murmured. They ate some more, silenced by Charles and Hank’s matter-of-fact acceptance of their abuse.

“Uncle M. That’s him.” Angel pointed out a new form moving away from the bar, ale in hand. Erik’s eyes narrowed. Hank looked up, anxious. Charles focused more intently on his food. The pie was good, and, besides, he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to eat it. Erik approved of Charles’s attention to his meal. Both slaves were still far too thin.  
“Eat, Hank.” he said, softly. “Try not to worry. I-“

“Hey, you Magnus Eisenhardt?”   
Erik looked up, irritated, to see a blond, well-dressed man, slack jawed and loose with drink, leaning over Charles and Hank. For a long moment, he contemplated throttling the man with the cutlery. “Who asks?”

 

“M’name’s William.” He said, words slurring somewhat. said “I was talking to your girl here- about these two.” His hand slipped from the table to rub over Charles’s back and neck. Sean sucked in a breath. Charles did not move. “You’ve a good eye for flesh.” He seemed oblivious to the mood among the Genoshans at the table. “How much?”  
“They are not for sale.” Erik said flatly. Charles and Hank exchanged glances. Magnus had sounded- angry. Charles hoped the wandering hand would stop soon. It crept lower.

“Oh, sure, you want to keep ‘em, I get it.” William burbled on. “But what about for the night? A couple of hours, maybe?”  
“No.” Moira said, tone mingled ice and iron.  
“A man has needs, damnit! This is- look, the staff at the inn is all free, and—“  
A grown man, Erik thought, distantly, through the thin haze of rage, should not pout  
“I don’t care.” He said. “I really could not care less about your inadequacies and frustrations. They are not for sale, rent or hire, understand? Stop pawing my- pawing them, and go away. Before I hit you.” 

William frowned, and dug his nails into the meat of Charles’ arm. Charles bit his lip, and found himself casting desperate glances at Magnus before he stared downward again.  
Erik breathed in. An idea occurred to him.  
“Hank, make a fist, please.” Hank looked at him, startled and wary, but he obeyed. “Not like that. Tuck your thumb down.” Hank did so. “Now. Please punch this man until he leaves or falls over.” Erik’s expression hardened. “That’s an order.”

“Oh, you’re funny.” William grinned crookedly, and bent to nose, moistly, at Charles’s ear. Charles held himself still, closing his eyes. They didn’t like it when you shuddered, but please, he didn’t think he could do this, not with his- the Genoshans watching, faces cut with distaste and anger.. “Come on, Eisenhardt-”  
“Hank.” Erik gritted out voice sharpening with authority: “ _Hit_ him.”

Hank hit him. William staggered back, clutching his cheek. Angel gave a subdued cheer.  
“Now there’s your mistake, Hank.” Erik said, as Hank stared frantically and Charles gaped. “The jaw is a good target, but it didn’t dislocate or break and he can still talk. Next time, hit harder.”

“Yes, master.” Hank whispered, numbed and appalled at his own temerity. Sean cackled. Moira stood and marched over to the spluttering William. She laid a hand on his shoulder. William lurched forwards and began to stagger outside.

“What?” Erik met the disbelieving stare of his two slaves. “I didn’t have any rocks.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Hank take a risk.
> 
> It pays off.

The next morning, Erik came down to a quiet room, sunlight beginning to filter in through the eastern windows. The last few days’ poor weather had passed off. It was too early to drink, so only the actual guests of the inn were about, and not many of them. Sean and Angel would still be abed, he thought, as a yawn split his jaw. He moved to the table they had claimed as their own the night before, and stopped dead. Moira sat there already, serenely eating porridge while the two slaves perched tensely, on either side of her. Erik was pleased to see their plates held meat and bread, although he wondered slightly at their tension - up until last night Charles and Hank had gradually grown calmer around the Genoshans than they had been at first. 

Mentally, Erik cursed William of the wandering hands. Hank and Charles had been happier, up until the time he’d come along. He knew leaving them alone in the stables was a risk; but they couldn’t be watched all the time. They got agitated. If the drunk had caused this setback; if they were afraid because of that, Erik was going to have to find the man wherever Moira had left him last night and hit him himself, instead of getting Hank to do it. At least he’d been too drunk to do more than stagger off and collapse. Erik wondered if self-defence lessons would help either slave. 

They’d probably still not be able to recognise _when_ they were able protect themselves, but if they learned _how_ , perhaps…  
“Master Magnus!” Charles popped out of his seat, and hurried away. Erik sat, and stared. At the head of the table, Erik’s chosen seat, a plate already awaited him. It did not hold food. Instead, two smooth river polished rocks the size of his palm lay on the eathernware plate, gleaming grey white and flecked with shining mica. Erik stifled another yawn, and longed for coffee as he slumped into his chair. Charles hurried back in with a tray laden with food, which he slid on to the table before Erik, before shrinking back to sit at Hank’s side.

Erik blinked. Cautiously, mindful of the antics of young Swords in the past, he poked one of the rocks. It wobbled, rocking on its base slightly.  
“Hmm. Rocks.” He stroked his fingers over the water smoothed stones. “Interesting.” Moira hid her smile in her cup. Charles and Hank appeared to be holding their breaths.  
“You… Last night, you said you didn’t have any. Master.” Hank murmured.  
“So we found you some.” Charles said. “In-- in case.” He ducked his head, staring at his white-knuckled hands. 

Both slaves shifted, anxiously. There was a light in their eyes Erik didn’t quite understand, but he knew well enough that in some way, how he reacted to the sudden appearance of a pair of stones on his plate at breakfast was very important. He was being tested through this. No, he amended as Hank half smiled at the table, he was being played with. Joked with. Erik swallowed. The moment stretched. A slow, almost painful delight began to unfold in Erik’s chest. He almost wanted it to last longer.

He could see that more clearly now. What bound these two to Erik? A little ink on paper, and yet, so much more. Charles and Hank had apparently decided to trust him- to trust all of them- enough to try playing a very mild joke on a man who could order them both raped or starved, whipped or killed. It was quite possibly the best compliment he had ever been paid. Not just to him, either. Moira, Sean and Angel- their treatment of Hank and Charles also reflected in this daring risk the two slaves had taken.

As for Hank, for Charles. What could he say? Erik had seen many things in his career as a Sword, as a spy. But he could not recall, right now, anything that matched what Hank and Charles had done, for their sheer cold courage of or for the enduring resilience that had fed it. Hank and Charles were staring at him now, two pairs of wide blue eyes peeking from under lowered brows, spooked by his silence. That had to end, and quickly.

“Just in case?” Erik smiled. “Thank you. That was very kind of you.” Both slaves relaxed.  
“They’re very nice rocks.” Moira let a smile quirk the corner of her mouth. She turned to the slaves. “I said he’d like them.”  
“Oh, I do. I do indeed.” The more Erik thought about it, the more incredible he found it. Where in the nights’ name had they even found them? Slaves owned nothing, he knew that well enough by now. 

They looked to be the kind of stone often used as cobblestones, but they had been both washed and cleaned. Had there been some kind of rock-finding quest, last night? Hank was strong, and so was Charles. Erik wondered if they’d dared prise the rocks from the stable yard, or if they’d found them just lying about, as it were? Erik darted a quick look at Hank and Charles. He hoped they hadn’t lost too much sleep for this.

Erik smiled again, and was further delighted to coax small- very small, but genuine- smiles from the pair. He poked the other rock. It wobbled, too.  
“Very nice rocks. In fact.” Erik held both slaves’ eyes with his own “These are the nicest rocks I think I have ever seen.”  
“They’re just - just rocks, master.” Charles said, diffident again.  
“Not at all, Charles.” Erik assured him. “These are, in fact, _my_ rocks.”  
“That does make a difference. Master.” Hank agreed, apparently in all seriousness.

Sean arrived and slid into place next to Hank.  
“Good morning Sean.” Moira hinted. Sean yawned.  
“Oh! Yeah, g’morning everyone.” He stopped. “Uncle.” He said, seemingly transfixed by the contents of Erik’s plate. “I- You know I haven’t done any touching, right? Right?”  
“I know.” Erik said, drily. “Don’t panic Sean. These are not for you. I’m sure if you had, I’d have been told.” He gave them a meaningful smile. “No, this is a present. For me.” To himself, he sounded faintly surprised, although the others at the table didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh.” Sean said, muttered half-asleep. “Good plan.” He nodded to Hank and Charles, and addressed himself to his porridge. Erik picked up his knife and fork and started eating. Fried beef, toasted bread, eggs-- Charles knew his breakfast tastes alright. Excellent. Erik set to. He had an appetite this morning.  
“Magda.”he began. “Do you have a small bag?”  
“Put them in your pockets.” Moira suggested, knowing very well what he was driving at. Erik shook his head.

“My coat will stretch.” he pointed out. “But a bag- maybe I can get a leather one…”  
“You’re- you’re thinking of keeping them, Master?” Charles goggled at him.  
“Of course I am.” Erik dipped his chin in a firm nod. “Where’s Angel?” He added.

“She went to see to the horses.” Sean mumbled.  
“We- I checked them this morning.” Hank fidgeted with his utensils, worried still.  
“Yeah, but I think she wanted to see if that guy from last night was about.” Sean took a huge bite, chewing for a minute. “She sharpened all her blades, special.”  
“Did she.” Moira didn’t sound approving. Quietly, she rose and left the table.

“I believe the first thing I said, when we discussed bringing you and your cousin with us on this trip was ‘Please try to keep the violence to a necessary minimum.’” Erik directed a stern gaze at the younger Sword. Sean stared at him. Hank and Charles stared at each other. Their levels of bewilderment seemed comically similar.  
“You saw what he did! What he said!”  
“I did.” Erik tilted his head towards the slaves. “Didn’t you see what Hank did, under my instructions?”  
“Yeah, but it wasn’t enough.” Sean subsided under Erik’s fierce glare.

After a pause, where everyone addressed themselves to the food, Moira returned. She bore a small bundle of cloth.  
“Here.” She held it out to Erik. He took it.  
“A dish cloth?”  
“It’ll stop them chipping each other. And that’s my spare wash-bag. Should hold them both.”  
Erik wrapped his pet rocks in the clean, dry dishcloth, and tried the bag. They fitted. He pulled the drawstring tight and grunted, satisfied.

“I’ll put them in my pack later.” Erik smiled, pointy and bright, still deeply pleased about it all.  
“You’re keeping the rocks?” Sean seemed a little worried. Erik angled the sharp smile towards him  
“Yes. They’re _my_ rocks. And--“ his voice softened. “They were a present. It’s rude to abandon a present.”  
“Or a person.” Moira’s gentle voice left Hank and Charles blinking at her. Erik doubted the message had got through this time.

Well. They had plenty of time for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, because I'm getting this beta'd by the enabling enabler (we know who she is), I'm actually posting this in arrears.  
>  I have two chapters one all set and one needing a little polishing, not yet posting. This is much better than writing and posting the same day, yiss.
> 
> Thanks, K!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Charles have a quiet morning. They use it to PLAN.
> 
> Be afraid, Erik. Be very afraid.

With the weather improving, the trading party would be moving on soon. The thought was soothing, as was tending the horses. Hank looked up from the tack he was cleaning as Magnus’ chestnut gelding nickered at him and wriggled its lips. The horses were spoiled for treats, had eagerly consumed the apple slices Charles and he had sneaked from the inn’s kitchen that morning, even before faint pink had begun to streak the eastern sky.

Nestled side by side with Charles in an alcove formed of stacked bales of straw, Hank felt as calm as he could manage after the events of the previous evening. He had learned to cherish such stretches of undemanding, routine activity afforded them by the Genoshans, alone in the peaceful morning with only Charles and the horses for company.

William had not turned up again. Mistress Magda had reassured them that he’d gotten so drunk that he’d be unlikely to remember the night before. Hank was not certain how she could be so sure. The memory of striking a free man – punishable by flogging or worse – rose up as his thoughts wandered. His fingers stuttered to a halt. Glancing down, Hank realized the cloth he’d been running over a saddle had dried without his noticing. He took the moment to waggle his fingers, easing potential cramps before they started.   
“Pass the saddle soap.”

Charles flipped the tin over, smiling at him. “He liked the rocks.” Smug was a good look for him, rare and thus treasured, but Hank still worried.

He ground his teeth and polished harder, grinding the saddle against his lap. “It could have been - he could have hurt us badly,” he almost whispered. “I can’t believe you talked me into it.” He shook his head.  
Charles smiled again. “But he _didn’t_ hurt us. He liked it.”  
“They’re crazy. Now he just thinks we want to toady up, to beg--” Hank hissed.

“He did like the rocks. And it wasn’t toadying up, you agreed that much!” Charles’ eyes blazed as he snapped back, wounded. Neither of them wanted to lose the little of themselves they had left.   
“You didn’t say not to,” he added a moment later, head bent as he finished oiling a set of reins.

Hank rolled his eyes.

Charles muttered at his lap, cheeks flushed. “I _thought_ he’d either ignore it, or else slap us both round the head and forget about it, if it displeased him, at least until the next groper he spotted. I thought things would go back to normal.” After a moment, he returned the reins to their hook and grabbed Mistress Angel’s saddle.

“Go back to normal? The Eisenhardts have never been--” 

“Genoshan,” Charles reminded him. “They feed us what they eat. They clothe us. They haven’t let anyone fuck us. They--”

“They think they’re being _kind_.” Hank said flatly, bitter for once. He set aside Sean’s saddle and stood to collect the bridle before settling back at Charles’ side. Charles pressed their elbows together briefly. Despite the argument, that closeness was as familiar and comforting now as it had been when they had first been flung together by fate and the slave dealers, some five or six years back. Hank was amazed they had managed to stay together so long; it was practically an eternity, in slavery.

“They _are_ being kind.” Charles’ hands worked steadily as he thought aloud. “It’s really not their fault they don’t understand slavery. We shouldn’t-- We don’t get many good things in life, Hank. Let’s not spoil them by thinking about the future too soon. It’ll come along anyway.” 

“How long do you think we’ve got?” Hank worried at his lip.

Charles shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Hank pulled away from him far enough to glare.

“I don’t think Master Magnus will sell us off without thinking about it; so we’ll probably get some warning, at worst.” Charles tried to smile.

“And at best?”

“They’ve trade routes planned and appointments in inns and hostels for about three months,” Charles said. “A lot can happen in three months.” His fingers found a worn spot on the saddleflap, as if something had often been carried there. But what? Couriers and military riders often carried their sealed messages there, but what would a trader know of that? They would hide their messages, surely?

“Yes…” Hank rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  
“Hank?” Charles let the problem of Angel’s saddle slide from his mind.  
“They’re kind,” Hank said, musing. “And-and…they don’t want to hurt us. _He_ doesn’t.”

“Not even as a punishment.” Charles agreed. “You know...” He trailed off. “They like to be kind. Magnus most of all.”

“We could-- We could try something,” Hank thought aloud. “We’re both good enough at sex, even if we’re old. Make one of them believe I - or you, or we - want them.” 

Charles made a face.  
“I don’t think any of them are exactly gullible like that.” He said, reluctantly. “Or in need of love. Seducing someone who can fuck you whenever they want isn’t easy, either.”

“Even one who doesn’t own a pair of rocks,” Hank agreed, thankfully. Making an owner believe they were in love, or the slave was, was hard, and even when it worked, it was risky in the extreme. Any owner fool enough to fall in love, or to believe that a slave - over whom he had the power of life or death or torture - could truly love him or her, was in for a bitter awakening; and the consequences of that awakening would always be agonising for the slave so revealed. 

“Charles,” Hank ventured softly, hope gilding his half-whispered words: “Do you think they’d-- Could we ever get to Genosha?” Charles frowned, pursing his lips. He shook his head.   
“They couldn’t keep us, anyway. There’s no slavery in Genosha,” he reminded Hank. Reluctantly, “I know how large that debt was they took us for. They’ll not be able to take a loss like that, even-even if they want to.”   
Hank’s face fell. “Silly to dream.”  
“Yes. But sometimes dreams keep you alive.” Charles murmured. His hands slowed on the saddle, oily fingers winding together.

“I wonder.” Hank’s face brightened. “He can’t, they can’t keep us, but, if we please him, if-- They know they don’t know about slavery, not properly. We could… guide them. Him.”

“Especially if we work together. Master Magnus holds the purse strings and makes the decisions.” Charles lifted his head.

Hank nodded. “Also he threatened the others with rocks if they touched us in the first place; they’ll be too scared.” He hesitated. “If we-- If we make him happy again, like with the rocks, but with more--”

“You mean sex?” Charles bit his lip. His training had left him scarred, and many of the worst scars were not on his body. His back was the least of it. Hank himself never felt that much about bedroom service either way, but it wasn’t something Charles was able to enjoy. Hank shifted on the straw bale to put a hand on his. “I’ll be there.” He promised. “I can-- You won’t like all of it, but you might like some of it.”

Charles kept his head bent over the leather in his lap, although he left his hand where Hank could hold it. “Magda doesn’t seem scared of him. And she’s his wife; she might not want a pair of slaves hanging off her man.”  
“Yes but they’re not - as far as I can tell - having sex with each other. I don’t think she’d sell us off without him knowing about it, even if she gets angry.”

“We can certainly spot a cruel owner before any of them.” Charles said, thoughtful. He closed his eyes. Magnus’ face, smiling his fiercely delighted smile appeared in the darkness there. Charles had to admit, he would like to see that expression aimed at Hank or himself again.

“He’s strong, but I don’t think he takes pleasure in others’ pain in other ways, why should he be like that in bed?” Hank speculated. “If we make him happy, who knows? Maybe he’d, they’d… check that we were happy with who was buying us?”

“At least we could, they might be more likely to sell us together.” Charles looked away. “It was so hard, surviving, before I met you.”

Hank smiled a little. “I-I never thought I’d be able to read and write, even, but you taught me.”

“You’re smart, Hank. There’s a difference between ignorant and stupid.” Charles met his gaze, the blue irises softly gleaming as the sky lightened, pouring pale, warming sunshine through the open doors and across the straw-strewn ground. Hank blinked, and his fingers tightened around Charles’.

“Sometimes I think it would have been easier if they’d taken Gem or the twins instead of us.”  
Charles stopped short. “Hank, are you saying you’d prefer your owners to be people who hit and fuck you? People who hire you out to anyone who asks?” he demanded, incredulous.

“No.” Hank shook his head, turning away. “But – that-that’s what owners _do_ ,” he added. “I can’t - if I get used to this, this kindness… When they sell us on, even together, I won’t - I can’t--” He broke off, and rubbed his face. 

“Hank.” Without thinking, they were suddenly wrapped in each other’s arms. Hank shivered. Charles rubbed his back in a clumsy attempt to be soothing.  
“Things will be all right,” Charles promised. “I-I don’t know how, but - there has to be some hope. He’ll-they’ll care about who we end up with. We can do that, at least.”

“Huh.”

“And even if - even when - we do get sold again.” Charles murmured into Hank’s shoulder, “We’ll have had this.”  
“This?” Hank said, but he sounded a little brighter. “You don’t even like bedroom service.”  
“I like you well enough. And… Master Magnus was _laughing_ , Hank. With us.” 

The silence stretched companionably for a moment as they pondered that.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Charles have a plan! They will be irresistible! 
> 
> Erik is immovable, he objects to sexually exploiting vulnerable people under his protection.
> 
> The author refuses to apologize for the puns, and is off to make lemon cordial, instead.
> 
> The author returns from making lemon cordial to notice she put the unbeta'd version up first, slaps herself and puts the final version up instead.
> 
> Sorry all!

Hank wasn’t wearing a shirt. Again. Erik Lehnsherr, First Sword of Genosha, glared helplessly at the scene before him. Hank continued to be attractively shirtless as he bent over the cookfire in an artistic pose. It was damnably distracting. It made his headache worse, too.   
“No, Sean,” Erik gritted out, in answer to the hapless younger Sword’s innocent question. “There is no Westchestrian courting tradition based on the giving or receiving of rocks.” 

"Are you sure?” Sean said. “Ever since they gave you those rocks, they've both been all over you.”   
“I had, in fact, noticed that, Sean. I’m sure.” Erik sighed. In the distance, Hank languidly knelt to turn the bread over. The firelight mingled with the warm hues of sunset to paint his torso in gold. Erik looked away, only to see Charles, mercifully not shirtless, almost _prowling_ towards them. Erik blinked. Was the slave licking his lips? Why? 

“Master. Masters,” Charles said, a little low thrum in his voice. “Can I… do anything for you?”  
“Not right now, Charles,” Erik said, and shifted awkwardly. His trousers had shrunk the last time Hank had washed them, he thought. Or perhaps he’d been sitting on the horse for too long today. He felt hot and faintly dizzy. Why was this happening to him?  
“Does your back hurt? I can--” Charles offered eagerly enough, but his eyes were blank, not quite meeting Erik’s.  
“No,” Erik snapped, and watched Charles recoil with an odd stab of guilt. “Go check the picket lines. Not you, Sean!” Charles hurried off and Sean sat back down, reluctantly.

“Do you have to be so harsh, Uncle?” Sean asked. “They’re much better, but you still scare them.”  
“I know,” Erik said. A moment later, in the same level tone, he added, “I will kill you if you talk about this.” Sean went gratifyingly pale. “But this is proving a little difficult. For me.”  
“Look, just - I know you told us off in front of them about touching, so they’d get the message they could say no, but...” Sean’s face creased in thought. Erik looked thunderous.

“We haven’t, you don’t need to worry,” he added hastily. “We’re none of us rapists.”  
“Sean…”  
“But - I’ve been watching these last weeks - we all have. If Charles isn’t trying something, Hank is, to get you into bed. Or - wherever. What’s wrong about them wanting you?”

“They don’t _want_ me,” Erik said, low and fierce. “Get that through your thick skull, Sean, they don’t. I’m the best of a bad lot, that’s all.”  
“I don’t understand.” Sean looked as puzzled as he had been by the bookkeeping, until Charles had started explaining it all. Thanks to that tutoring, Sean was going to make as good a business man as he might make a Sword, assuming Erik didn't strangle him soon.

“As far as I can tell, it is not about desire. It’s about trade,” Erik said, crisply.

“Trade?” Sean looked ill. “But - you wouldn't--”  
“They want to please me, and they don’t think they have anything else to give,” Erik’s voice darkened without permission, harsh and deep, his gaze caught as Hank moved from the fire to pour water over himself. The liquid flashed in the last rays of the sun, gilding the young man’s lean muscles as he lifted the bucket again, trickling down to soak his trousers. Erik swallowed. Hank turned slowly, the wet fabric clinging and damp over his rear.

“I hold their papers,” Erik explained, dragging his eyes away from the display. “I’m-We could rape them; hurt them, kill them, even, treat them any way we wanted, and if they ran, all the law would do is return them with one foot missing. Of course they don’t want _me_. Of course they want to please. They don’t want to be hurt. You were the person who told me about Charles’s back; you must know what they’re afraid of.”

“Oh.” After a moment, Sean added, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t feel bad for me.” Erik found himself watching Hank again as the boy moved to intercept Charles. “I’m just a little frustrated. Charles and Hank are the ones who’d really be hurt by this.”

“Uh-huh.” Sean eyed him oddly. “A little?”

“All right, a lot frustrated. They’re very handsome. But it’s just a matter of time before they work it out and stop trying so hard.” Hank slung his arm around his friend, and they coiled sinuously together for a moment. Erik closed his eyes and prayed for strength. 

“What are you going to do?”

“Keep ignoring it,” Erik said, between his teeth. “It’s only a matter of discipline.” He stood up with a jerk. “I’m off to… gather firewood. If they start in on you--”

“Iiii don’t think so.” Sean sounded quite cheerful. “Pretty sure they only have eyes for you, Uncle.” Erik sagged a little. Sean winked. “Get Aunt M to talk to them,” he suggested as Erik began to head for the woods. Erik didn't reply.

Eventually, privacy assured, he fumbled open his trousers and set to work on himself. Jerking off alone in the woods was a poor substitute for the things Hank and Charles had been indicating they’d like Erik to let them do to him, but it cut down on the number of embarrassing dreams he’d been having lately. Hank and Charles had featured in all of them, usually laughing and eager, fearless and delighted. In Erik’s dreams, there was no edge of calculation in their blue, blue eyes.

Moira had said the noises he made were worse than snoring. And he had to do something, so the woods it was; privacy not being an easy thing to find on the move. Hank and Charles had grown steadily more blatant in their approach since Moira had not said or done anything to indicate she was even aware of their little endeavour, let alone that, as Erik’s - Magnus’ - nominal wife - she might frown upon other people attempting to get him into bed.

Flesh temporarily satisfied, Erik heaved a self-pitying sigh while he headed back towards the firelight. At least the spy network was checking out correctly, and with Hank and Charles around to do the actual work of a trader party, bar the negotiations, they were getting on faster, with less risk to their cover. 

“Magda.” Erik found her just settling by the fire. “Did--”  
“Yes, Tony is a good friend of my cousin’s,” she said smoothly. “And he’s hopeful he can come visit soon.”

Charles began handing out bowls of stew around the fireplace. “Master,” he said, invitingly. “Where will you be sitting?”

“Next to my wife.” Erik said it harshly, watching as Charles briefly faltered, then firmly kept his eager expression in place.  
“You could be a little kinder,” Moira said. Erik stared at her.  
“It’s hard enough as it is - don’t snicker! - without giving them the idea that it’s working!” he hissed. Moira looked more amused than sympathetic.

“It had better not be working,” she replied. And then, a little louder, “Thank you, Charles.” Smiling, she took the stew from him. Charles flushed and mumbled before retreating to the other side of the fire to sit next to Hank.

Moira murmured over her stew. “At least they've stopped trying to sit with the horses or away from the fire when they eat.”

“Hank is practically fellating his spoon,” Erik snarled. “If he’s going to do that, I’d prefer him to be too afraid to approach the campfire, frankly.”

“If it bothers you, don’t look.”

“It’s metal, it doesn't _matter_ if I’m looking or not.” Erik switched to focusing on his food. Briefly. Until Charles slowly licked his fingers, pink tongue glistening in the firelight.

Erik prayed – again – for strength.

 

Sleep that night proved elusive, shallow, and full of vaguely disquieting dreams. He awoke with a head full of fluff and a mouth that tasted as if a small creature had decayed there.

Angel stared at him critically. “You look awful, Uncle. Bad dreams or too much ale?” She rolled up her bedding with efficient, practiced movements.

“No,” Erik denied curtly.

“She’s right, you know,” Sean said. A chill breeze wandered through the campsite, and Erik repressed a shiver. The dawn was bright. He’d warm up as soon as they got moving. He stretched, and winced as his joints protested. He bent to pack away his bedroll. His back hurt. He must have been sleeping on rocks. 

“Oh, I can - let me,” Hank murmured, ducking down on his knees to fumble with Erik’s blankets. Erik blinked, and slowly straightened, looking down at Hank’s bent head and busy hands. His eye sight blurred, and he blinked again. Erik pinched the bridge of his nose and ordered himself to wake up.

“Coffee,” Charles said suddenly, from behind him. Startled, Erik whirled round and nearly fell. “Are you - are you alright, sir?” Charles held his master upright with a surprisingly strong grasp on his arm.

“Uh,” was all Erik could manage. Why was it so hard to think? 

Hank left the bedroll to support Erik on his other side. Erik stared at him muzzily. His hands trembled.

“Mistress Magda,” Charles called, voice shriller than usual. Moira turned, and quickly began to stride towards them.

“Don’t... don’t be frightened.” Erik patted Charles’s chest. “You’re safe with us.” Charles stared at Erik’s hands, so he took them away from Charles, but he couldn't stop them shaking.

“We know that, sir,” Hank said, quietly. “We--”

“You both are really very beautiful,” Erik interrupted. “I wish I could kiss you.” Charles and Hank’s eyes shot wide.

“I think I need to sit down now,” Erik added, slumping gratefully into their arms.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is sick. Fortunately for him, his Westchestrian slaves know what to do.

“What’s wrong?” Moira hurried up. Erik’s near collapse had been visible across the campsite.

“Master Magnus is sick.” Charles said. “He has a fever, mistress.” Erik blinked blearily at them all.

“Be all right in a minute,” he assured her, airily. “Jus’ need to-to catch my breath.”

Sean busied himself spreading out Erik’s bedroll again. Hank and Charles lowered him down onto it with tender care.

“What’re you all standing about and staring for?” Erik demanded, crankily.

“Husband.” Moira’s eyes snapped. “You are ill.”

Erik nodded glumly. “Thought so.” He closed his eyes and leant against Charles’ kneeling form.

“Just rest, sir.” Charles bent over him. “We’ll bring you some tea, and--”

“He’s shaking.” Hank said quietly. Charles looked up at him, anxiety burning in his eyes. Sean frowned and Angel drifted over to stand next to him, the pair of them silent and anxious.

“Hank, are you sure?” Charles’ mouth thinned to a white line.

“What?” Moira demanded. Hank swallowed.

“Shaking Fever.” He pointed. “Ah, look, Master Magnus’ hands--” Moira looked, and then closed her eyes for a moment. Erik’s hands were shaking, tiny, regular tremors so characteristic of the sometimes deadly illness. Soon the trembling would spread up his arms into his whole body as the fever burned through him.

“Right.” Moira nodded once, firmly. “Sean, Angel - go through the packs and see what we can cache and what has to be dumped. Hank, Charles - start putting together a litter. We need to get him to medical help _now_. The nearest town’s half a day’s fast ride from here.”

“Mistress.” Charles interrupted rapidly, still kneeling with his arm round his master. “I - There are things you have not told us.” He continued, very carefully. “I don’t want to be impertinent, or to presume, but-- Does Master Magnus have a Gift?”

“Got my rocks,” Erik mumbled, eyelashes fluttering briefly.

“A _Gift_?” Moira repeated, startled. “This is no time for--” Charles visibly cringed, but he kept his chin up and he looked Moira in the face.

“The Shaking Fever has--”  
“Can have,” Hank added.

“It can burn out a Gift, even when the person survives.” Charles said, softly, eyes far away. “There’re herbs and--”

“Metal!” Sean blurted out. “Uncle moves metal.” Both slaves paled.

“Sean!” Angel hissed. 

“Then, ah, I, I--” Hank faltered.

“Spit it out, Hank.” Moira commanded. “No one will hurt you for speaking the truth.”

“He needs to stay away from heavy concentrations of metal.” Charles said.

“The two nearest towns are both mining towns..” Hank nodded as he spoke. “ If-- The Shaking Fever can cause someone’s Gift and their control over it to fluctuate badly.” He tried not to sound apologetic.

“And that can - you can lose your Gift that way.” Charles put his hand on Erik’s forehead. “If there’s too much of whatever you’re sensitive to around.”

“Are you _sure_?” 

Charles looked up at her, blue eyes shadowed to an infinite depth.

“That’s what burnt out mine.” He cringed again. All three of the non-fevered Genoshans’ mouths dropped open.

“What--” Sean started to say. Angel hushed him sharply. 

“Not the time!” she snapped. Charles’ past belonged to him; and besides, she could see that it cost him to share even this much.

“Right,” Moira said. “All right. So. We can’t move him. What do you advise?”

“I--” Charles stared. Hank cut in smoothly.

“S-someone needs to build a shelter, including a camp bed or something - we don’t know if the weather will hold, and he can’t stay on the damp floor. I can--”

“Sean. Angel,” Moira said briskly. The young Swords nodded. “Go build - and dig a latrine trench while you’re at it.” For a minute, they just stood there, dazed and uncertain. “Quickly!” Moira added, as Erik’s shaking became more severe. They hurried off.

“I - may I look at the medicines you have and, I-I can make, um, a suggestion?” Charles asked.

“Please do,” Moira said, crisp and encouraging.

Charles blinked. So far they seemed to be doing alright. Maybe they’d be punished later for concealing information and/or impertinence, but now, Magda was focussing on the important thing, Magnus’ illness.

“Hank knows herbs,” he said carefully. He didn’t explain that it was partly because he’d taught Hank to read from their then-owner’s great herbal tome. They didn’t need to know that Hank could read, any more than they needed to know about his lucky token.

“This-this area was settled once, before the lords decided let forest back in here. I can - there are fever-reducing plants--” Hank started to babble.

“Hank.” Charles spoke softly. Hank closed his mouth. “With- with your permission, Hank can find plants that will help.” Both slaves regarded Moira solemnly. 

“We don’t - Shaking Fever is rare in Genosha.” Moira’s hands clutched at her belt, betraying the calm of her posture and expression. They nodded. Hank disentangled himself from Erik and stood.

“What do you need, Hank?”

“I, um, a knife?” He gestured hesitantly toward the thick line of trees growing not far from the road, and just beyond their camp. “And a bag, a small one. I won’t be gone long, or go far.”

“I trust you two to know more than we do,” Moira said. “Go where you think is best, with my blessings, if you need them.” Hank nodded and turned towards the packs, still piled near the horses. His step was swift and sure. Charles pulled the blanket over Erik more securely.

“I’ll get you a water skin.” Moira said. Charles nodded. She felt a surge of gratitude that they seemed to know what they were doing. 

 

Erik knew he was sick. Hank and Charles told him when he woke up, but he would have worked it out for himself eventually. There was so much evidence, after all. Everything was too hot, and too bright, apart from the times it was too dark, and too cold. His metal sense kept twitching at the back of his mind. Erik wanted to complain about all this at length, but he found he scarcely had the strength to swallow the herb teas Charles and Hank seemed to be spooning down him almost constantly. Talking for long was as impossible as climbing in to the moon.

“Hot.” He complained loudly, just in case anyone could do something about it. “Shaking,” He added shortly afterwards. Why couldn’t the world stay _still_ , like it used to? It was really very trying.

“You’re running a fever, sir.” Hank told him. “Drink this.” Erik wrinkled his face at the taste.

“I know it tastes bad.” Charles said, perhaps the next second, perhaps later. “But you have to drink it, master.”

“Not your master,” Erik denied. “Don’t want to be.” The cup was put to his lips again. He swallowed. “Really, really don’t.” He leaned back against Charles. 

“No, sir?” Charles murmured politely.

“You’re too. Too.” He couldn’t think of the word. “To have a master.” _Too pretty. Too clever. Too strong._ There were many words Erik thought, but none quite fit.

“‘m eyes aren’t working,” he noted, after a pause. “Not properly.”

“It’s night, sir,” Charles informed him, gently. “There’s no light.”

“You’re here,” Erik pointed out. Charles was bright enough, wasn’t he? Practically glowing. There was a faint flash in the dusk - was Charles smiling? He squinted, trying to see.

“That I am, sir.” Charles’ voice was sympathetic, comforting.

“S’nice,” Erik offered. A careful hand took his. “Cold,” He complained. The hand tried to withdraw, but Erik held on as best he could. The world was still shaking. 

“It’s only my hands, sir.” 

“Put a coat on,” he said sleepily. It didn’t matter if Charles was cold, if it was only his hands. Erik could warm them up. He seemed to be hot enough for several people right now, anyway. Abruptly, his metal sense, which seemed to have been asleep for a while, shouted at him. Erik recoiled.

“Sir?” 

“Metal… all noisy.” He blinked, but it was still night.

“That’s the fever, sir.” Charles soothed him. “It will pass.” 

Erik grumbled wordlessly. A soft cloth, heavenly in its damp coolness, passed over his face. Erik focused on it, trying to ignore the loudness of the metal, but a small part of it would not leave him alone. It was too close.

“What’s in your pocket? Tastes funny.” There was a gulping noise, and Charles’ hand, which he still held safely, jerked.

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Don’ matter,” Erik vaguely wiggled his fingers. “Funny metal.” But the cup was back at his lips, and he left the contents of Charles’ pockets to another time. It still tasted horrible.

“Yech.” He grimaced, and then slept, keeping hold of Charles’ hand, just in case.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is still sick. CHarles and Hank propose radical treatment.
> 
> Because the illness is fictitous, the treatment is, too.
> 
> :)

“He’s too hot.” Hank looked down at his sleeping master’s fever-flushed face. Erik had already sweated through his own bedding, and his wife’s was dampening quickly. But he lay peaceably, still gripping Charles’ hand. “And you’re too cold,” Hank added, mildly scolding. “You couldn’t let go long enough to get a blanket for yourself?” Although they’d laid a makeshift brazier in the roughly built lean-to, its heat escaped through a myriad of gaps in the bound springy branches. A horse blanket draped over the open side to serve as a door barely kept out the night’s cool air.

“I’d have woken him,” Charles muttered, staring at their linked hands.

Moira said gently, “He would not have hit you. Even delirious.”

“That’s not why,” Charles bit his lip at the shortness of his words, then glanced up to catch her eyes, apology in his own. “Mistress.” He tilted his chin toward Magnus. “Just - look.”

As soon as Charles tried to move away, Erik stirred uneasily. He frowned in his restless sleep. When Charles started to prise his hand free, Erik muttered, indistinct yet protesting sounds. Charles stopped trying, and Erik subsided again. Moira’s face softened. Hank eyed Charles. He wondered what, precisely, Charles was picking up from the skin to skin contact with the sick man. It couldn’t be that bad, or Charles would look worse than merely slightly chilled and tired. Charles shot him a reassuring look.

“You said he was too hot.” Moira reminded Hank, recalling him to the here and now.

“The shaking’s stopped.” Hank spread his hands, shoulders rising uncertainly. “So his fever should be sinking, or at least holding steady, but, if anything, it’s rising.”

“What does that mean?” Moira’s face was calm and her voice untroubled, but a dark flash in her eyes made both slaves shrink in on themselves.

“Uh.” Hank gathered his courage. “The shaking is - has been - linked to the Gift.”

“The master still has his.” Charles had an odd look on his face. “The spoon keeps bending when I try to feed him.”

“High fever could damage his mind,” Hank finally said. He looked around reflexively. Sean and Angel were nowhere to be seen.

“What?”

“The - high fevers can do that, mistress.” Tension stiffened Hank’s frame. He watched her carefully, his expression wary. “And, uh febrifuges only go so far in reducing---”

“It’s all right, Hank, I’m not going to hurt you for telling me the truth.” Moira breathed in, pinched the bridge of her nose, breathed out. “What can we do, if the medicines aren’t working?”

“If his temperature doesn’t start dropping soon? We’re going to have to drop it for him.”

“How?” Moira didn’t move closer, but somehow seemed to loom over the young man more than a foot taller than she.

Hank looked hunted.

“It’s an old trick. But, I think, I think - if we take him to the river, and immerse him carefully, that should keep his fever from going too high.”

“His heart is strong.” Charles laid his free hand against Erik’s cheek. Moira wondered if he was trying to be reassuring. Murmuring, Erik turned his face into Charles’ palm. Charles looked down at his master with a soft quirk of the lips, before turning to Moira again. “But the decision is yours to make, mistress. Master Magnus is your husband.”

 

It’s too hot. Everything is too hot, and Erik can’t think, can’t move, can only lie there and twitch and shake as his brain starts to fry. Voices come and go, but he doesn’t understand them anymore. He would be lost, spinning in that hot and chaotic void, but he has an anchor. A bright cool point that stays near him, allows him to hold on to it and so hold on to himself.

And then everything is not hot, no, it’s cold, freezing, and he can’t get away from the cold. He struggles, but his bright point isn’t there, won’t help, and the cold, the cold just keeps flooding in and in and in.  
He cries out. There is more cold, and voices, some familiar, but no one seems to know him. They don’t talk to him by name.

He struggles more, but it’s weaker, and as the cold pours over him, Erik finds he can think, just a little. He knows he is Erik, but also Magnus. He knows he is sick. He knows he is not alone, even swamped by the flooding cold that pours over and around him, freezing his skin and nearly stopping his breath.

And then the cold is taken away, and he is being pounded all over, rubbed and touched by hands, not his bright point, but still, not the hot void. There is peace again, not as hot or hurtful. Someone holds his hand, and for all Erik doesn’t know who they are, or where or why he is, it’s nice, after the cold. He decides it’s probably safe to let himself drift, just for a while. He’s not alone, after all

 

When he opened his eyes again, the sunlight - rippling in through cracks in an unfamiliar ceiling of cut and bound branches - was bright but no longer blinding. A sharp scent of sap from the branches filled the air. A young man with blue eyes crouched at his side, staring at him, squinting.

“You need glasses,” Erik told him. The young man blinked.

“Master?” the young man - Hank his name was, Erik remembered - asked. “Are you back with us?”

“Where’d I go?” Erik didn’t remember travelling. Surely he’d remember that. But he didn’t remember building a rickety little shelter, either. 

“You’re sick. You have a fever.” A new voice spoke. Erik knew it, he did, if he could just--

“Charles, sir.” Yes, of course, Charles, Charles and Hank, his - what were they? They weren’t his Swords, they were--

“My rocks.” Erik said aloud, and for a man with a towering fever he looked oddly happy.

Hank’s brows drew together. “They’re - they’re right here, sir.” He showed Erik the bag. Erik frowned.

“Drink this, sir.” Charles held another cup to Erik’s mouth, and tilted him up so he could drink comfortably.

“Yech.” Erik remembered the taste, but swallowed it down.

“It’s medicine, it’s not supposed to taste good,” Charles murmured.

“Yech,” Erik said again, firmly.

“How is he doing?” Erik rolled his head and saw--

“Moira!” He greeted her happily. He frowned. “No. Not right.”

“Uh, sir, that’s, um, Mistress Magda is your wife,” Hank said cautiously.

“Oh, right.” Erik remembered now. Undercover.

“Well, the master is a little, he’s still a little confused.” Charles rolled the cup in his hand. “But he knows who most of us are--” 

“Don’t worry about that.” Moira said. Charles narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Master Magnus’ temperature came down, and it seems to have stayed down.” Hank told her, a tiny bit of optimism in his voice. Moira sighed, relaxing.

“ _He_ understands what’s being said, too.” Erik said, faintly grumpily.

“Yes, sir,” Hank said. “Sorry, Sir.”

“S’allright.”

“And.” Hank picked up the thread again “His, I mean, Sir, your- brain, your mind doesn’t seem to have been damaged.” Moira closed her eyes in silent relief. 

“Mistress.” Charles quietly caught her gaze. “You should eat, and rest.”

“Can’t have my wife getting sick now, can I?” Erik joked, weakly.

“There’s soup in the pot by the fire.” Charles stood, stepping away from Erik. Erik felt a curious pang of loss.

“Or I can cut you some cheese to go with your panbread, mistress?”

Charles peered at Moira hopefully. She smiled, slowly.

“And just when did you last eat, Charles?” 

“Mistress?” What did that have to do with anything?

“Or you, Hank?” Moira asked, and watched the other slave look puzzled. “You’ve been very good at taking care of all of us, but --”

“Disgusting tea.” Erik mumbled.

“I’ll bring you some broth.” Hank hastily departed. Erik looked at Moira. 

Charles busied himself straightening the blankets.

“How badly are we delayed now?” Erik wondered aloud. They had had appointments to make, places to be by certain times-- “How long was I out for?”

“It’s been three days since you woke with the fever.” Hank said, returning with a mug of something that was hopefully not vile tea. He knelt and offered it to Erik. It seemed strangely heavy, but Erik was mildly pleased with himself for being able to drink without aid. He drank cautiously. Broth, not tea. 

“Did I hear something about food?” Moira enquired. Charles flushed.

“Yes, of course, sorry, Mistress.” He scrambled off his knees, but staggered slightly as he stood.

“Bring yourself and Hank some food, too,” Erik ordered. He had caught Moira’s comment about neither of them having eaten, and it did not please him.

“You must take care of yourselves, too, you know.” Moira said, coaxingly. “Where will be without you?” Charles looked woodenly at her.

“We’re good at that, mistress.” he said, and stepped away towards the fire.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has Charles got in his pocketses?

The mood around the campfire the next night was cautiously jubilant among the Genoshans, and just plain cautious in the two slaves. Erik sat close to the fire, leaning on a large log Hank had muscled into place earlier. He drew a deep breath, and called the tin plate to him. He sighed in relief as the metal answered him as sweetly and willingly as ever. 

“They’re staring.” Moira said, low in his ear. Erik smiled at her.

“Not much point in concealing it now.”

“Try to avoid it when we’re not alone.” Moira cautioned him. “You know as well as I that in Westchester--”

“--They don’t like the Gifted. Their loss.” Erik snorted.

“Your soup, sir,” Charles said softly. He didn’t look either of his owners in the eye.

“Still soup?” Erik’s mouth drooped sadly as he took the bowl. “When can I eat something solid?”

“When we’re certain your stomach hasn’t ulcerated or weakened with the fever. Sir.” Charles curved his shoulders as if to duck a blow. Erik frowned. Abruptly he was hit with a grim fear.

“Charles?” The slave stopped moving away. “I - when I was delirious, did I hit you? Harm either of you at all? I’m sorry. I - didn’t know where I was.” 

Erik frowned. He didn’t know why Charles was warier now around him; and he hoped that it was not due to suddenly discovering his master was Gifted. At least he and Hank had decided to wind back their seductive moves and attitudes a little. Possibly they’d stopped out of pity for the convalescent, or possibly the slaves had concluded that Erik was a poor target for their desperate attempts and would move onto another member of the team. Erik wasn’t sure which he’d prefer less, really.

“No, sir,” Charles said, puzzled. “You-you didn’t hurt, didn’t want - try - to hurt anyone.”

“You socked me in the jaw when we put you in the water.” Sean cheerfully pointed out from across the fire. Charles jerked a little, and began to retreat again.

“No more than you deserve, I’m sure, Sean, seeing as there’s no bruise.” Erik wrapped his hand around Charles’ fine-boned wrist and tugged a little. Charles stood still.

“The horses are fed, the packs are all in order, and everyone’s got their food now. Sit down.” Eyes still wide from Erik’s rumbled order, Charles sat down next to him.

Hank handed his bowl of stew across, and Charles took it, carefully as always.

“Don’t just look at it, start eating,” Erik ordered. Charles jumped again and fumbled for his spoon. Erik turned back to his thinner, but equally delicious soup. There was a short silence, broken only by the snap of the fire and the small noises of eating. Charles seemed to breathe more easily as the stew began to vanish from his bowl. 

“So what, when will Erik be back to travelling?” Angel asked, pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Even with summer rapidly approaching, nights were cool, and her complexion marked her as someone born to Genosha’s warmer climes. “We’re losing time.”

“Time’s money.” Sean looked at Moira, head tilted.

“I’m ready to ride.” Sean and Angel both snorted at Erik’s insistence. Charles looked down at his hands, eyes shadowed.

“No, you’re not.” Moira dismissed Erik casually. “Hank?” 

“Uh. Sir, has your Gift steadied?” Hank fidgeted anxiously with his empty stew bowl as he spoke.

“Yes, mostly.” Erik said firmly. “It _has._ ” he insisted.

“Then, um, you don’t want to risk it too near the mines and metal works, so… three more days? Maybe?” Hank looked at Moira beseechingly.

“But, the time--” Sean quieted when Moira glared at him.

“Sean,” Erik said. “You understand the trading agreements we’ve been making?”

“Yes, Uncle.” Sean’s face scrunched up.

“You understand book keeping?”

“Well, thanks to Charles, I’m _better_ than I used to be, but--”

“Good. You ride at dawn tomorrow; take Angel as your common sense.” 

“What?” Angel jolted out of her daydream.

 

“What.” Sean’s voice was flat. Hank and Charles discreetly exchanged glances.

“Go on to the first town; book us rooms, and start the business. We’ll join you in three--”

“Four.” Moira’s voice sliced through Erik’s words, a whisper-soft blade of determination.

He sighed. “Four days. First taste of independence.” Dryly, “See you use it well.”

“Uh, but, Uncle--” Sean started to babble. Angel hissed at him to shut up.

“I am sure you’ll be fine.” Moira’s eyes twinkled. “If you’re uncertain I can go along too; and Erik can follow with Charles and Hank when Hank says his Gift is not at risk.”

“Um.” Erik wasn’t quite sure if that was a good idea or not. If Moira left him alone with the two and they went back to trying seduce him, poor frantic fools, then resisting would be much, much, hard-- More difficult.

 

“I think I can manage Sean and Sean can manage the trading.” Angel smiled.

“Yeah. What she said.” Sean agreed.

“It’s decided then.” Moira said.

“Don’t trade away the _entire_ family inheritance.” Erik said, mildly. Beside him, Charles hunched in on himself, shivering slightly. The movement jerked at the odd metal he carried. “Alright, I have to know.” Erik said to him. “What _is_ that in your pocket?” Charles tensed further.

“Pocket?” he said, carefully. The fire leapt up, and Erik could see a faint gleam of sweat on Charles’ face.

“That, that, odd, metal thing, I can’t see what it is but you’re carrying a round metal object, in your left pocket.” Erik waved his hand. “Gifted, remember? I can sense metal.”

With infinite resignation, Charles pulled a small engraved disc, barely a finger length wide, and laid in it Erik’s palm.

“It’s just a lucky token. I didn’t steal it, master.” His voice was low, almost toneless, and Erik couldn’t see his properly face in the flickering firelight. Angel said something to Sean; but Erik ignored them.

“I didn’t think you had.” He said absently, and stared a little more.

 

The disc was flat, and might have at one time been polished in parts, although now all the smooth parts of the face were cross-hatched with small scars. Clay had at one time been plastered to the disc; and small traces of it clung in the folds and nooks. But the original pattern was very, very clear: A bird (Erik knew it was a raven) clutching a small lizard, atop a mountain with the sea at its foot. The crest of the Darkholmes, the royal family of Genosha. Underneath the mountain, in the sea, there should have been words _“Constant as change.”_ but they’d either been worn away or never engraved.

 

“Where did you get this?” Erik breathed. He recognised the metal now; alright. Mountain steel, all the way from Genosha. It was incredibly rare; even there, most of it being used for weapons or royal possessions. How had this little piece come from there all the way into a slave’s hand?

“Is that a raven?” Sean squinted. Moira frowned at him.

“I” Charles stared at his knees, miserable. “My - sister, before, before - she gave it to me.” Hank looked up, sharply. His lips parted, but he said no word.

“Before?” Erik echoed, puzzled. Charles seemed lost, sad. And then the penny dropped. He cursed himself for several kinds of fool. 

“From before” meant from before Charles had been a slave, clearly. And this little thing had been given to him by his sister; was probably all Charles had left of his free past. Hank’s comment, about slaves owning only what was in their heads came back to Erik, and he shivered. How had Charles managed to keep this, small as it was, through his long years of slavery? Was there, perhaps, a connection between Charles’ free family and the people - person; who had helped Princess Raven those many years ago, and had never come forwards? She’d been eight, when her mother died. 

Charles coughed, and Erik was recalled to the here and now. Time for speculation later. Erik put out a hand and rested it on Charles’ shoulder. “I’m not - it’s yours, I’m not going to take it from you.” Charles looked at him, blankly. Erik slid his hand down Charles’ arm, reached for his hand and turned it over. He laid the disc back into Charles’ palm and folded his fingers around it.

“I’m sorry.” Erik gentled his voice. “I didn’t mean to pry. It just--it’s a funny metal.” Charles stared at his closed hand.

 

“Yes, master.” He said, meekly. “I - I can keep it?”

“Of--” Erik changed his wording abruptly; he doubted either Charles or Hank would see this as an “of course.” sort of thing. “Yes, Charles. No one here will take that from you. It’s your token.” he said, still gentle. Charles bowed his head, but not before Erik saw his eyes were shining with tears. Moira coughed, pointedly, and Erik exchanged a look with her. That token of Charles needed to be discussed, but not where the slaves or the more excitable Swords would hear.

 

“It’s getting late.” Moira spoke to Sean and Angel. “You’d better go to sleep now, the pair of you, if you want to pack and be off by full light.” 

“Yes, Aunt.” Angel said, subdued. Sean echoed her, dutifully.

“And you three.” Moira looked sternly at Erik and the two slaves. “You get to bed right now too; I’ll take first watch.”

“But--”

“Erik; you’re still sick. Hank, you, and Charles, you two wore yourself to a thread nursing Erik; AND it’s probably thanks to you we didn’t take him through enough metal to destroy his Gift. So go rest!”

 

“Yes Magda.”

“Yes mistress.” The three voices over lapped, and sounded oddly similar.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and Moira and their two slaves arrive at the inn Sean and Angel have been trading from. 
> 
> Some drama ensues.

The stables loomed ahead in the dim evening, promising an escape from the rain and chill. Hank sighed, and slid off the horse. Even though the saddle sores had healed weeks before, he was glad to finally have his feet on solid ground. They’d ridden far that day to catch up with the rest of the party. Master Magnus’ pale face, his slumped shoulders - his whole frame reflected weariness. He was still not back to his full strength. Hank flicked a glance towards Charles.

“Get off the horse,” he suggested, in a low voice. Charles blinked sluggishly at him for a moment before complying. He landed on the cobbled yard with a thud. Hank tried to keep his wince internal.

“Uncle!” Fortunately enough, Sean’s glad cry of greeting and hasty approach distracted both master and mistress. Hank had the horses – and his fellow slave - in hand and heading into the stables before the four Genoshans had stopped greeting each other.

“Sit yourself down, Charles. I can deal with this.”

“But--” Charles faltered and came to a stand-still, exhaustion moulding his spine to a stall door.

“ _Sit._ ” Hank reinforced his order, a guiding hand pulling Charles along, and then pushed down on a bony shoulder until the other slave thumped onto a little bench.

“It’s only a cold,” he insisted, glancing over his shoulder. Hank started unsaddling the first horse, Master Magnus’ chestnut. “You’ll be back on your feet in no time, and they won’t find out. Don’t panic. I can cover for you.”

“I - there’s a hospital here.” Charles’ voice was barely audible, but dread came through clearly. Hank carried the saddle out to him.

“True,” he said, and dropped it in Charles’ lap. “Look busy over that. But they’re not going to get rid of you if they don’t know you’re sick, are they?” Charles nodded, and sneezed. He began rubbing at the leather lethargically. Hank went back to unsaddling the horses.

“Where’re the ostlers?” Sean’s voice cut through the hay-scented air. Hank looked up.  
“Ostlers, master?” He spoke slowly, trying to play for time. Charles kept his head down over the saddle and rubbed industriously.

“Yeah, even just four horses is a bit much. Don’t tell me they’ve gone off drinking again.” Sean said, and swung himself down next to Charles.   
“I - the stable was empty of people when we came in, sir,” Hank said. “I don’t know why.”

“Bet they’re in the taproom. I’ve been here three days; they’re always in there. S’chilly in here.” Sean looked closely at Charles.

Charles swallowed down his next cough. “S-sir?” Sean was too close. If he noticed Charles was ill, he’d surely tell his uncle. And that would be the end of Charles’s travels with these crazy, wonderful people, and the end of his time with Hank.

“I just - I want to thank you both.” Sean rubbed his fingers over his knees, flushing. Both slaves took refuge in a puzzled silence. Hank laid a set of reins next to Charles, and picked up a currying brush. “For helping Uncle.”

“He-he’s our master,” Charles said breathlessly. “We’re supposed to--”

“You didn’t have to ask about Gifts.” Sean said. “None of us knew how to help him, what he needed. You did.” In the quiet moment that followed, Charles tried to choke down his next cough, and failed.

“Hey, are you alright?” Sean’s brows drew together. “That sounded like--” Charles coughed again. “You’re sick,” he surmised, quietly. Hank whirled round, too fast, and had to comfort the horse, who laid his ears back and sidled nervously at the sudden movement.

“No!” Charles denied, too sharp, too worried. “Please, I’m not, it’s just a little dust--” He coughed again, rackingly, and had to gasp for breath. 

“Yeah, no.” Sean stood and plucked the saddle from Charles’s suddenly nerveless fingers. “Come on, let’s get back to the warmth and get things sorted.” Sean took Charles’ hand and pulled him upright. Hank made as if to leave the stall and follow. Charles shook his head, despairingly. They gave each other a long look; this might be the last time they ever saw each other, if the master sent Charles straight to the hospital.

“I’ll be right back to help with the horses.” Sean told Hank, blithely indifferent to their fear and sadness, as he marched Charles to his uncertain fate.

 

Sean steered Charles into the inn proper, ignoring the disapproving or salacious looks as they passed. If his party wanted their slaves in their rooms, they did and the rest of the world would just have to deal. Angel came up to them, moving away from the bar with a jug of ale.

“What’s happening?” She handed the tray to Charles almost automatically.

“Oh, Angel, yeah. Can you check if Hank’s ok? I gotta see Uncle about something.” Sean jerked his head at Charles, who stood there looking stuffed and grey. Angel looked at him, and nodded.

“Sure thing. You boys go on, I’ll help Hank.” She shot Sean a glance as she went by. “Go gently,” she hissed in his ear.

“Private room is up the stairs, corridor on the left.” Sean said. Charles jumped and set off, still carrying the tray. Sean thought about trying to take it from him, but left off when the slave turned to speak to him.

“Please.” Charles husked. “I’m not - I don’t--” He was almost trembling. Sean didn’t understand it. Was he afraid he’d be punished for getting sick? Sean shook his head. Westchestrians, he was coming to realise, were almost all of them crazy.

“It’ll be alright,” Sean soothed. Charles stared mutely at him as Sean swung the door to their private room open.

“Uncle. Aunt,” he said. “Charles is sick,” He pulled the tray away from Charles a little too easily and went to set it on the nearest table. Moira moved towards Charles, but stopped as he flinched back

“Is it the Shaking Fever?” Erik moved swiftly from his chair by the fireplace.

“N-no.” Charles shook his head. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He coughed behind his palm. “I-I’ve already had it once, you can’t catch it again.”

“You’re still sick,” Erik said, looking at him. “Come on, come sit down.” Ignoring Charles’ shrinking away, he tugged him forwards to the fire.

“Please!” Charles protested desperately. “Please!” Erik frowned and put a hand to Charles’s forehead. His frown sharpened at the heat he felt there.

“Sean.” Moira began, softly as if not to alarm Charles further. “Go and get the medicine kit from Hank.” Sean left. Charles looked terrible. He’d need all the help he could get.

“Please,” Charles said again, urgently. “I-I’m not sick.” His throat hurt, and his joints burned, and his head ached so badly he could hardly see, but that wasn’t the same thing as being sick, not really.

“Why are you--” Moira started. Charles barely noticed he was talking over her. 

“Please, master. Please.” He dropped to his knees, frantic, begging. “Don’t sell me; I’m - I can still do my work, I won’t--” He had to break off to cough. Erik’s jaw dropped. He stared, first at Charles’s utter terror, and secondly at Moira. She met his eyes with a gaze as astonished as his own. Charles was still pleading, grabbing at Erik’s waist. Erik’s gut twisted. No one should beg like this. Not to him, not to anyone.

“Stop it, Charles.”

“Don’t-don’t--” Charles babbled on, scrabbling at Erik’s knees.

“Stop it,” Erik repeated. Charles didn’t seem to hear him. “I said, _‘stop it!’_ ” He grabbed Charles’s imploring hands and pushed himself away. Charles swayed and nearly fell backwards. He sat on the floorboards, staring upwards in mute appeal.

“Why?” Erik asked, almost plaintively. “Would we sell you because you’re ill?” He crouched, trying to look Charles in the eye. Charles coughed, frantically hiding his face. Moira poured out a mug of ale.

Hoarsely, Charles forced the words out between curled palms. “There’s a hospital in this town.” 

“And?” Erik put a hand on Charles’s shoulder. He could feel the faint shivers of fear and fever running through the slave’s still scrawny frame, and he didn’t like it.

“Hospitals - hospitals buy, buy sick slaves cheap. Then sell the ones that they cure. And, and, you’ve already lost time - if you thought I couldn’t keep up-”

“Alright.” Erik said. “I-I see.” Moira handed him the ale. Erik looked at it, quizzically.

“Charles, try to drink this,” she encouraged softly. “And breathe.” 

Erik stood, and urged Charles up with his spare hand under Charles’s elbow.  
“Sit,” he ordered, seating Charles in the chair he’d been sitting in when Sean dragged the pallid slave into the room. He handed Charles the ale when the slave opened his mouth, apparently objecting to taking to his master’s seat. Erik ignored him. Charles was unwell, he needed warmth and rest and care. 

It was probably the fever making him talk like this, anyway. Charles had to have worked out the difference between Westchestrian owners and Genoshans, surely?

“Charles, the idea of selling you never crossed my mind. Sick or well,” Erik stated firmly. Charles blinked.

“You and Hank have been so good, helping when Erik was ill - why would we think to repay that by selling you?” Moira gazed at him with kind eyes. Charles’ mouth opened, and closed soundlessly. 

“Drink the ale. I’m not too sure of the water here, and you need liquids.” Moira said, gently. 

Charles obediently swallowed. It was good ale.

“But - the custom--” he croaked, after drinking.

“ _That_ for the custom.” Erik made a crude gesture. “We’re well enough off, if you meant trade, and if you didn’t, it’s probably another Westchestrian idiocy we can do without.” Erik snorted. Charles still looked terrified, so Erik took pity on him. Clearly the man needed a few things made more explicit to him.

“I’m reasonably sure you and Hank saved my Gift between you, if not my life. I _don’t_ abandon people I owe a debt to, not like this.” Charles gaped.

“But - we’re just slaves. You own us, you don’t owe us anything,” he whispered. Erik repeated the obscene gesture, somewhat more vigorously. That seemed to be the best answer.

Moira gently remonstrated with him, leaning down to peer into his bloodshot eyes. “Charles; we’re due to be here for another week; I’m sure you’ll have recovered by then.”

“Oh.” Charles’ feeble voice almost sank beneath the crackling of the fire. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have panicked.” Why _had_ he panicked so? Of course he didn’t want to lose Hank, but what other loss had he been afraid of? Was it possible he’d allowed himself to start liking his masters? Surely not.

“No, you shouldn’t have, but you’re not well, are you?” Erik smiled at him. Charles’ heart jumped. “Some soup and medicine, and some lying down - you’ll be fine in no time,” Erik reassured him.

“And even if you’re not,” Moira said quickly in response to the doubt on Charles’ face. “We won’t leave you behind, or separate you from Hank.” Charles looked down at his ale, hiding his expression. He would be better in no time at all, he was almost sure of it. He had to be. Because, no matter what they said, about debts, or liking him, or, or, anything, Charles was their slave. Their tool.

He belonged to them, like a saddle, or a horse. His masters might find the saddle comfortable, they might like their horses, but if one wore out, you’d replace it, and if the other broke its leg, you’d knock it on the head and buy another. Maybe they’d feel sad about it, but, well, there it was.   
Erik put a hand under his elbow. Charles stood.

“You are going to take your shoes and trousers off and get into bed.” Erik instructed, as he stripped Charles’s coat from his shoulders. 

“This is all wet, and you need to stay warm.” Carefully, Charles removed his shoes and muddy trousers. Erik moved a truckle bed out from under the large bed in the corner. Charles wondered how he’d done it without hands, before he blearily thought about the nails holding the wood together. He crawled on to it. It _was_ very good to lie down.

“We won’t sell you.” Erik said it again, as he spread a blanket over Charles. Charles nodded, obediently. He thought that was probably what they’d want to see, even if a bitter lifetime’s experience meant he could never believe them, not about not being sold. They couldn’t keep him. They would leave them both behind when they went home, after all.

“Tru-- No, I won’t say, trust us, not about this.” Moira said. Erik frowned. “I will say, try us. Test us and see.” Charles nodded again. His head hurt. 

“Try to sleep.” Erik said. “I’ll wake you when the food’s here.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woeful Hank is woeful, in the stables. Angel and Sean learn more about the reailties of slavery.

Hank leant his head against the flank of the gelding Charles had been riding, and closed his eyes. For a long moment, he tried to think and feel nothing at all. Six years he’d known Charles, more than six, since they’d been paired up after the trader-owner of the time had finally realised nothing would undo the damage Charles had undergone during his training, not whipping, or starving or coaxing.

The horse shifted at the sudden cessation of brushing, turning its head to nose curiously at its groom.

“Alright, alright,” Hank said into the warm curve of its side. “I won’t stop.” He resumed currying. He wondered if he’d ever see his friend again. Charles could not like sex with his owners, and he could not conceal the fact, either. Most masters wanted service with at least a pretence at smiling compliance; for the ones who preferred reluctance he was, by now, too old for a personal purchase. Even then, when Charles had been sixteen, and almost beautiful, he’d lived as free for too long for anyone to believe they could mould him. 

It was a serious flaw, as serious as Hank’s feet. Hank moved around to the other side of the horse and began work on the other flank. The horse whickered at him. Blinking, Hank realised his eyes were wet. Six years they’d managed to stay together, through guile and carefully applied obedience and luck. And a simple illness had severed them.

“Hey, Hank.” Hank did not start, or turn. He kept grooming the horse.

“Mistress Angel.” He greeted her quietly.

Angel moved into the neighbouring stall, and without another word, set to work on Mistress Magda’s horse. Hank let the silence stretch.

“Sean said - Charles is sick.”

“Yes, mistress,” Hank replied tonelessly. In case she was worried, he added, “It’s not the Shaking Fever.” He bent to lift the horse’s right foreleg. He checked the foot for swelling, infection or foreign objects.

“He seemed - he didn’t seem very happy about it.” Angel observed, keeping her eyes on her moving hands. It sounded better than flat terrified, which Charles had looked to be, to her.

Hank tensed, speaking a little more sharply than he intended. “Maybe Master Sean’s thinking of the tutoring he was getting.”

“Was getting?” Angel left her horse and came to lean on the stall divider. “He’s not - Charles isn’t _that_ sick, is he? He didn’t look like he was dying.” 

Hank bit his lip. He wanted to scream or cry, but he couldn’t. He was a slave. All he could do was obey.

“Sick is sick,” he said, strangled. “For - for slaves, mistress.” Angel blinked.

“You’re - you and Charles are seriously expecting we’ll what, just knock him on the head or drown him, or, or something? For being _ill_?” Angel couldn’t understand how Hank thought Charles’ fever-fed fears were realistic. They were people, not animals!

“I try not to make a habit of expecting anything from my owners. Mistress.” Dry as desert, and Hank knew he was heading for a beating, if not worse, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Sean’s blithe acceptance of Charles’ illness, and what it would mean, still grated at him. He put down the right foreleg and picked up the left. Angel’s horse snorted. 

“Hank.” Angel said. “ _Hank_.” Reluctantly, he put the hoof down, unchecked, and turned to face her. She didn’t appear to be holding a cane or a whip, but he tried to prepare himself for pain, anyway.

“Mistress.” Angel pinched the bridge of her nose and drew in a deep breath.

“What’m I missing here? Why is Charles being ill--”

“Because they’ll _sell him_.” Hank said. Did she not understand that?

Angel shook her head, slowly. Hank kept talking. 

“There’s a hospital right here in town; they buy sick slaves, and sell the ones they cure.” He blinked. “I’ve known Charles for nearly seven years--”

“They are not going to sell him.” Angel's eyes flashed, voice low and fierce. “They are not.” Her knuckles were white where she gripped the wooden stall door. Hank coughed, lightly. His eyes were watering again. He brushed at them irritably.

“You’re - this is a trading group; you're already behind because of waiting to look after master Magnus, so--”

Angel cut him off, speaking sharply. “Hank. You both just spent eight days nursing Uncle; he’d have died or lost his Gift without you!” She breathed in. “We - he wouldn’t do that.” Sincerity rang in her voice.

“Really?” He took a stumbling step towards the stall door.

“Really, Hank, really.” Angel's face, spotlighted in a random sunbeam, was fiercely confident. “They’re - we’re better than that.” Hank blinked. He thought about the crazy, crazy Genoshan behaviour he’d witnessed since they became his owners, and he wondered.

“It’s just - it’s not the normal way of doing things,” he said, half apologetically.

“Maybe not for you.” Angel glared, but Hank could tell it wasn't at him personally. The gelding shifted, stamping and Hank automatically moved towards the stall door. Angel stood back to let him out. Hank hunched his shoulders, but she made no attempt to strike him for his impertinence, either.

“I’ll give you a hand with the gear.” Angel said, and Hank moved to where he’d stacked it. He picked up a bridle. Angel went for the saddle Charles had been working on.

“How long’ve you known Charles?” she asked after a bit. Hank turned his head. He calculated dates and owners.

“About seven years, mistress.”

“Yeah, you said.”

“For us, that’s a long time,” Hank said. “Charles is the only person I’ve ever known for more than about a year.”

“Gods.” Angel said, softly. Hank turned back to the reins. Angel licked her lips.

“Hank,” she began, very carefully. “I… Can I ask… How do people become slaves, here?”

“Either their mother is a slave at the time of their birth, or they are sold by a parent or guardian before the age of fourteen, or they are seized for debt and sold by their creditors.” Hank said, promptly. “Or - some crimes, a person can be sentenced to slavery, by the judge.”

“Wait, people can _sell their kids?_ ”

“Better sell one than have them all starve.” Hank gazed bleakly at nothing, his hands working quickly and without thought.

“Is that what happened to you and Charles?” Angel sounded tentative. Hank laid aside the bridle and reached for another saddle.

“Not for Charles. I don’t - I’m not sure with me, except I think I was born free; my sales papers don’t go back to birth.” Hank bit his lip. Had he just inadvertently revealed he could read those papers? Angel ignored his self-incrimination, opening her mouth to ask more, but was interrupted by Sean's quiet entrance.

“What about Charles?” Sean asked, settling down besides Angel and looking back and forth between them. “And I gotta get the medicine pack, is that in there?”

“Under Master Magnus’ saddlebag,” Hank said slowly.

“Great.” Sean began to root through the gear. “Do you know how Charles got to be… how he is?” Sean flushed when Angel glared at him.

“A slave?” Hank kept his voice calm. Sean pounced on the medicine bag with a tiny “ha!” of triumph.

He prompted Hank to continue. “Yeah, a slave.”

“His stepbrother sold him in open market when he was thirteen.” Hank said tonelessly. “Never bought him back.”

“Burning night,” Angel whispered.

“But - but, why?” Sean asked, blankly bewildered. 

“Slaves don’t own anything.” Hank said. “Not even family ties.”

“But - his own brother.” Sean seemed unable to move past the point. 

“Stepbrother, right?” Angel put in. Hank nodded again.

“Shouldn’t matter.” Sean shook his head fiercely. He put out a hand, and gripped Hank’s shoulder. “Family is family.”

“Maybe in Genosha. Master.” Hank set his finished work aside, bowed his head to them both before heading toward the stable doors, and toward Charles, somewhere inside the inn. He hoped.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles receives care and does not understand it; Erik and Moira have a conversation.

With the junior Swords dispatched to care for the horses, and coincidentally absent for a short span of time, the only sound in the room was the peaceable snap of the fire and Charles’ steady, quiet breathing.

“Is he asleep?” Moira whispered.

“I think so,” Erik answered, equally softly. “He must have worn himself out, looking after me.” Charles’ fever-flushed face bore lines of past sadness, but he looked serene enough, sleeping safely under their care.

Moira turned away from the fire and saw Erik bending over Charles’ huddled form in the truckle bed. “He’s going to wake up if you keep breathing in his face like that.”

“I just want to make sure all’s well.” Erik found himself, inexplicably, wanting nothing more than to rest his fingertips along Charles’ sharp jawline, to feel the faint stubble there. “I don’t want him to wake up and be frightened we’re leaving him behind.”

“And if he wakes up to you looming, he’ll be equally scared,” Moira said tartly. “At least step back far enough for the poor lad to _breathe_.”

Erik’s long legs carried him the three steps back to his chair. Moira frowned pensively at the fire.

“I should have noticed he wasn’t looking well; but these last few days”-

“You were distracted,” Erik observed. “My fault.”

“I wouldn’t say _fault._ ” Moira poured two glasses of wine and joined Erik by the fire. Erik’s mouth thinned into a single line.

“Hospitals buy sick slaves,” he quoted bitterly. Moira handed him one of the glasses and sat in the chair opposite.

“Well, they do.” She took a slow sip. Erik stared at his wine. The firelight glowed in the glass, turning the liquid to a glowing red gem cupped in Erik’s fingers.

“I know, but surely - they’ve been with us for months; and he still thinks I’m - he went on his knees to me, he was begging us--”

“He wasn’t thinking.” Moira glanced at the sleeping slave. “He was fevered and panicking. If they’ve been with us for months, they’ve both been owned by Westchestrians for _years._ ” Erik scowled for a moment, before he relaxed, and gave Moira a rueful nod.

“Is it serious?” he asked, at last. Moira’s face set in unhappy lines.

“Not much more than a cold; but we’ve only been able to feed them up since we had them, and--”

“Owned by Westchestrians for years,” Erik repeated. A low noise from Charles’ corner of the room made them both look over; the slave seemed only to be shifting in his sleep. A single arm escaped the confines of the blankets Erik had laid on Charles, flopping limply over the bed’s edge.

“He’ll be fine. So will Hank,” Moira said quietly. “We’ve the medicine. All it will take is time.” She wasn’t only talking about Charles’ fever. Erik nodded.

“Time, yes. And the right care.” He took a gulp of wine. It was not a bad vintage.

The fire burnt quietly and cheerfully in the brief silence that followed.

“Darkholme,” Moira noted, even more softly than before. “You saw it, didn’t you?” 

“Yes.” Erik nodded. “But I don’t know what it means. Why would he have it? How did he _keep_ it?”

“It’s the late Queen’s design. That crest was only ever used when the family travelled. And they only travelled into Westchester--”

“Once. When Her Majesty died.” Erik said heavily. Moira nodded. They both knew the story: Princess Raven had been eight when she and her mother had gone on a royal visit to the then king of Westchester. Urged on by unknown agitators, angry crowds had attacked the progress of the party. The Queen had been thrown from her horse, and died of it. Princess Raven had disappeared. 

She’d been well enough fed, and had disguised herself as a boy during those missing months. She had said she’d been rescued, but had never said by whom or how many of them there had been. Her father had posted great rewards, promised whatever he could to thank whoever had saved his only child and heir to Genosha, but no one had ever come forward. Well. No one who’d passed the telepathic test set to filter out liars and con artists from genuine claimants.

“We can hardly ask him.” Moira ran a fingertip along the rim of her glass, eyes half-hooded in contemplation. “Not now; there’s so much we can’t say, and he - they’re already so scared of us.” 

 

Charles was dreaming. He knew it to be a dream; one of his older nightmares, the one that had become true.

_Autumn, now, not summer, and the streets were full of people who knew, who stared at them and did not or could not help. Charles was being dragged along, however much he tried to fight, dragged to the slave pens, and this was where the nightmare began to solidify into something inescapable._

_“Come on!” Cain chortled, gleeful. “Market time!”_

_“No, no please--” Charles tried begging, but Cain simply laughed harder._

_“Come along, stepbrother. Dad’s orders!”_

_They weren’t going to buy slaves; as Kurt had said, no, Cain was – Cain was going to sell him. And because this was the dream, the memory, Charles knew what he was being sold into, every scar and tear and cry of pain and drop of blood that awaited him._

_The crowd roared in his ears. He could hear the rapid sing-song chant of the auctioneer. Cain’s hand gripped Charles’ arm brutally tight as he shoved him forward. The block he was supposed to climb on leered at him, a sullen piece of stone stained with sorrow and despair. He tried to scream.  
_ “Charles?” __

_“Pl’se,” he wheezed, desperate. “Pl’se, no.”_

_His begging had failed. His mouth wouldn’t work._

__“Wake up, Charles.” __

_He wanted to run. His legs wouldn’t work._

_“Nnnn…”_

_He couldn’t even breathe, now. His lungs wouldn’t work._

“Charles!”

 

He jerked awake with a strangled cry. Someone was holding him - touching him - and Charles recoiled, so hard and fast he slid off the bed to the floor. He cried out again, and flung his arm over his face.

No one hit him.

“Charles.”

He peeked round the barrier of his own right arm to see Master Magnus squatting on his heels a cautious distance away, looking quizzically at him.

“Are you alright?” Magnus said, moving in closer. Charles tried not to whimper. Magnus stopped, and put out a hand to touch Charles’ shoulder. Charles swayed into the touch before he could stop himself. He let himself rest, eyes shut for a long moment, until his head tilted far enough to end up lying on his master’s arm. 

“Charles.” His master’s voice was kind. Charles became aware that he was wearing just his shirtsleeves and small clothes. He jerked upright, and shivered uneasily under his master’s eye. Where was Hank, where were the others?

“Master,” he said, cautious and hoarse. Magnus frowned, and Charles tried not to cringe again. Magnus - none of the Genoshans liked it when he or Hank cringed.

“I’m sorry I startled you. You - it sounded as if the dream you were having was a bad one,” Magnus said hesitantly. Charles nodded, wide-eyed to hear a master apologise to him. Magnus extended a hand. Charles looked at it. Magnus looked impatient, so Charles took the hand hastily, ready to let go if he’d not been supposed to do that.

Slowly, carefully, Magnus helped Charles to his feet, and assisted him back into the truckle bed. Charles tried not to panic. This was just a bed; Magnus had said no one could sleep with the slaves, hadn’t he? His head hurt. Oh, that was it, wasn’t it? He was sick, but they weren’t - they had said he wouldn’t be sold. That he’d get better before they needed to move on. He became aware Magnus had asked him a question. Charles had scarcely heard it over the roaring in his ears.

“Sorry, Master,” he murmured, humbly. Magnus spread the blankets over him more firmly, without looking at him. Charles bit his lip.

Mistress Magda caught his eye. “He asked you if you were hungry, Charles.” Looking at his bewildered face, she went on with scarcely a pause, “In any case, I’ve ordered you some soup; please try to drink it when it gets here.”

“Yes, mistress,” Charles said, uncertainly. Magnus sighed and dropped to sit on the bed. Charles stiffened up, and then made himself relax.

“I sent Sean off to get the medicine ages ago,” Magnus grumped, more or less to himself.

“Are you - do you feel unwell again, Master?” Magda blinked. Magnus shook his head.

“For you, Charles,” the master said.

“Oh.” Charles blinked back at them, slowly. “Oh, thank you.” Magnus patted Charles’ knee though the blankets.

“Thank me by getting well,” he ordered, jovially enough, and Charles risked a smile.

“Yes, sir,” he said. Magda smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the almost every day updates from me. Such is life.
> 
> RL has shifted my time available to write to the point where I'll probably be aiming to get two chapters out a week. Rest assured, though, that I will be finishing _all_ my stories eventually. 
> 
> Promise!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hank and Charles are informed of important things, and Sean articulates his inmost desire.

Hank plodded wearily up the stairs. The innkeep had thrust a heavy tray into his hands, and ordered him to attend his masters, with a significant look. No question but that he was thinking of bedroom service, either. Hank supposed it was just as well; he dreaded to think of the man’s reaction if he knew the Genoshans refused to house their slaves in the stables simply because others might make use of them. At least, Hank thought that was why he and Charles had been permitted to sleep inside by the fire, on pallets or even, occasionally, truckle beds. That seemed a particular brand of Genoshan crazy, or perhaps their owners hadn’t realised the impossibility of escape, and wanted to keep them both close. He tapped on the door, and hoped he’d come to the right one.

The door jerked open, and Master Magnus’ face appeared in the crack between door and wall. As soon as he saw Hank, he swung the door wider.

“Master, I have - the innkeeper told me to bring this.” Hank dipped his chin toward the tray.

“Put that on the table.” Mistress Magda pointed. Hank did so. He cast his eyes around the room, trying to see if Charles had been taken away yet.

“Over there,” Magnus said, watching him closely. Hank peered in the direction of his gesture to see Charles, sitting huddled against the wall, in a truckle bed.

Hank bit his lip. They hadn’t sold him off yet. There was still hope. But why was he half dressed and in a bed? For a moment hot rage washed through Hank; Charles was not skilled in the bedroom, and to start trying him when he was already sick… it was surprisingly cruel. But anger was not a safe feeling, not for them. He drew a quiet breath and nodded at his fellow slave. Charles smiled at Hank easily, and he breathed out. At least he was there, for his friend. Hank turned to face his masters, waiting for his orders.

“Come sit down.” Magnus gestured to one of the chairs across from his. “Will the children be here soon?”

“I-I think so, sir,” Hank cautiously replied, struggling to work out what was going on. Charles made a little “go on” gesture with one hand. Hank moved to the fire. He was grateful for its warmth on this damp, cold day.

“They can get their own food,” Magda said, cheerfully unconcerned. “Charles. Drink this.” She handed him a bowl of soup, straight from the tray. Charles took it, cradling the bowl against himself and breathing in the steam. Belatedly, it occurred to Hank that Charles had not been installed in the bed for service. He blinked.

“Sit,” Magnus said again, and Hank folded down to the floor by the fire. Apparently he was not to do more to the food than carry it in. Master Magnus blinked at him. Magda grimaced at her husband, and he jerked back into movement abruptly.

“We get a pie today, it seems.” Dextrously wielding a knife, hands free, he began carving the pie into quarters. Hank swallowed back hunger, and wondered if there was any soup for him.

“How do you feel about turnips, Hank?” 

“Master?”

“I hate ‘em.” Master Magnus scrunched his nose in repugnance. It should not have been adorable, but it was.

“Oh, I can eat them,” Hank said, hope rising. “Just not raw.”

“Who can?” Magda returned from Charles’ bedside to place turnips and a quarter of pie on a plate. She picked up cutlery.

“He can have my turnips, too,” Magnus told her. She shook her head, smiling.

“You’ll eat your vegetables, too, or you’ll regret it when your teeth and hair fall out.” She carried the plate to Hank, and put it into his hands. She handed him the cutlery. Hank blinked at the food. The pie had been cut into four, and he’d assumed that meant it was for all the masters, even though Mistress Magda had said they were to get their own food… He turned his head a little, and caught the expression on Charles’ face as he ate his soup.

“Eat up before it gets cold,” Magnus advised him, softly. Hank did not need to be told twice.

“It occurs to me,” Master Magus said abruptly, part way through his pie, “That we really should have made some things clearer to the pair of you than we did before Charles got sick.” Charles froze, spoon partway between bowl and mouth. Hank gulped. The pie folded into an uncomfortable lump in his stomach. He exchanged a glance with Charles.

“S-sir?” Charles faltered. Hank didn’t know what they’d done wrong, or what they were planning.

“No, nothing you need to be afraid about. I’m not, oh, _night_ , neither of you need to be frightened.” Magnus sounded exasperated.

Mistress Magda directed a encouraging smile at them. “Nothing harmful, I promise.” She kicked her husband. “Just - we never would sell you off.”

“Not for something you couldn’t even help, like being sick,” Magnus grumbled.

“And we realised; we turn for home in less than a month,” Magda continued. Hank’s pie lurched again. Charles carefully placed the spoon back in the bowl, and leant over to put the bowl on the floor by his bed.

“The journey to Haven port is about a week in length,” Magnus added. 

“So we thought we had best reassure you that we’re not selling you,” Mistress Magda said, and waited expectantly.

Faintly, Charles said, “I don’t understand. You’re not selling us before Haven?”

“Or after it,” Magnus nodded firmly.

“You… you want to b-b-bring us with you to Genosha?” Hank croaked.

“Yes.” 

“Yes.” The two replies overlapped, they were spoken so quickly.

“But slavery is outlawed on Genosha.” Charles sounded blankly puzzled. “We’d, we’d still work for you and, and things, of course but, what if someone finds out? You could get--”

“Why, yes, slavery _is_ illegal at home,” Master Magnus drawled. “That’s sort of the point to getting you both there.”

“ _What?!_ ” They both gasped.

“Westchestrian law doesn’t allow for the freeing of any slave, does it?” Master Magnus asked, thoughtfully.

“Except when it’s imposed as sentence for a crime and the person’s proved innocent,” Charles said, automatically, and then flinched. 

Magda spoke gently, her voice as calm as her expression. “But Genoshan law says other countries’ laws don’t apply to Genoshan citizens on Genoshan soil.”

“We’re - we’re not Genoshan citizens,” Hank pointed out.

“You will be,” Magnus said. “Ah - if you want. We’ll sponsor you, it’s not difficult.”

“If we - if we _want_?” Hank gaped. “You’ll--” He throat felt tight-- “You’ll make us, free, free people if we _want?_ ”

“You cannot possibly afford this,” Charles shook his head, distant and sad. Hank felt reality pierce the cloud of hope that had enveloped him. “You - I’ve seen the accounts, you--”

“We can get paid jobs. Can’t we?” Hank burst out hopefully. He turned to Magnus “We could - we could pay you back in instalments?” Magnus abruptly rose to his feet. He moved toward Hank, who abandoned his plate and stood up, quickly.

“I swear by my soul and my - by my bones - we don’t care about the damn money!” He clapped his hands on Hank’s shoulders. “You’re _people_ , may night consume me--”

“Consume all of us,” Magda put in, moving to sit by Charles. 

“If we ever put coin before human life!” Magnus exclaimed.

“Indeed,” Magda agreed, fierce and bright-eyed. “You are coming with us and we’re going to free you and that’s that!”

“You can argue with her if you want, but it’s not going to get you anywhere. Magnus’s mouth quirked into a smile. “You should know that by now.”

“Oh,” Charles said, shaking. “Oh.” He brought his hands clumsily up to his face and started to cry. Magda embraced him. He leant forward, hiding his face in her hair. She carefully, gently patted his back. Hank stood, spell bound, unable to look away from his master - from Magnus’ eyes, looking back at him. Seeing him, as the Genoshans all always had, he realised - as a man. A person. 

“Close your mouth, Hank,” Magnus said kindly, gaze bright with humorous affection. “In less than two months, you’ll be a free man.”

“I,” Hank said. “I.” He stopped. Could not continue.

 

The door swung open, shattering the moment. Sean loped in.

“Hey Uncle, I think--” He broke off, absorbing the charged atmosphere of the room. “Uh. Why are we hugging people and crying?” he asked. Magda swung round to glare at him. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Sean added hastily.

“Master Magnus - Mistress Magda they say… they say--” Hank couldn’t go on. He could scarcely look away from Magnus, still holding him up at arm’s length.

“They said we’re going to be free,” Charles murmured, eyes bright. “We’re to come with you to Genosha and become citizens.”

“Oh,” Sean said. “You finally told them. Cool. Hey, is that pie?”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Charles consider another Plan. It is much the same as the first one. Erik spots this Plan and then makes a mistake.

It was a cool night. Shutters covered the window, and only a few moonbeams managed to pierce through into the room beyond. The only sound was Sean’s breathing, deep and quiet as he slept. Hank lay awake, still turning over the conversation from two days earlier. Beside him, Charles was also awake, discernible because he hadn’t coughed since lying down. Even after the bed rest and soup and medicine poured down his throat since they’d arrived at the inn, Charles still coughed a little, at least when the Eisenhardts were not around to order him back to bed. 

Hank concentrated on making his slow roll look casual, and rested his mouth next to Charles’ ear.

“I want to like them. _And_ trust them,” he whispered. “Isn’t it funny?” Peering through slitted eyes, he saw Charles lips curve into a smile.

“Me, too,” Charles breathed back. “But just because they mean us well, they might not be able to do us well.”

“Slavery is illegal in Genosha.” 

“I know.” Charles didn’t move or open his eyes as he replied.

“They said they’re taking us there, anyway.”

“I know.”

“Do you think we can risk believing it?” Hank whispered. 

“Do you think we can risk not?” Charles whispered back.

“I’ve never been free.” Hank avoided the full thrust of the question. He was glad they couldn’t see each other’s faces, wrapped in blankets and pretending to sleep as they were. It made talking easier.

“I almost - I was thirteen,” Charles said. “It’s hard to remember. …so many years.” He shifted a little, as if in sleep.

Hank glanced over to where Sean slept, red hair bleached by the moonlight. He didn’t stir.

“We might. We could be free,” he said, dreamily. 

“I wonder what… what we’ll do. We’ll need to work for money.” Charles’s head turned toward his. “We’ll have to keep ourselves.”

“And save up to pay them all back.” Hank curled his fingers around the edge of the light blanket he’d been given. “So they can’t change their minds.”

“I don’t - I don’t think they’ll do that.” Charles sounded uncertain.

“But. If they need money at some point…” Hank trailed off. They both knew that twist.

A slave who was useful and happy and valued by his master was equally as likely to be sold when his master ran into debt as one who was not. Technically, they’d be free in Genosha, but Charles had seen the debt Michal had owed the Eisenhardts, for which Hank and Charles been taken in trade. He didn’t know of any trading family - of anyone - who’d casually write it off, even if they didn’t approve of slavery. Paying off their cost would keep them safer. Not to mention…

“And if we can pay off in instalments…” he mused.

“We can visit them.” Hank finished the sentence. “Without being forward, or, or presuming.”

“They might want to keep tabs on us anyway,” Charles murmured hopefully. “Master Magnus... he likes to see to the details of things.”

“He’s Gifted,” Hank said. “But he doesn’t mind.”

“He’s handsome.” Charles blurted it out before he could stop himself. He wished he could hide his blush; but Hank’s Gift meant his night sight was good, too.

“Charles.” Hank’s low tone warmed, turned speculative. “Do you suppose…?”

“He won’t sleep with slaves; we worked that one out, just about, before he got sick.” Charles pulled the blanket tighter round his shoulders.

“Yes, but we’re not going to be slaves, that’s what he said.” Hank thought for a moment. “If he-he was definitely looking, before. If he - if he does more, this time, then we might - it could be--”

“He could confirm what they said before. And, and if he likes it.” Charles swallowed. “He might come back for more. In Genosha.”

Sean made a snuffling sound and rolled over. They both paused. 

“No… It’s pickled.” Sean said aloud, and started snoring. Slowly, Hank fumbled his hand out of his coverings - the Eisenhardts always insisted on too many blankets - strange, strange people - as Charles did the same.

“He did say he wouldn’t use the rocks on us.” Charles squeezed Hank’s hand tightly.

“We can try it.” Hank took Charles’ hand in his. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

 

“They’re acting weird again,” Sean said quietly. “Ever since we left the last town.”

“Sean!” Angel hissed. He shrugged at her, unrepentantly. 

“They are!” he insisted. “Charles keeps grinning and then looking like he’s about to cry, and Hank keeps walking into things and apologising. _And_ they’re both all over Uncle again.” The young Swords looked across the campsite to where Charles was, in fact, grinning at the stew as he stirred.

“Hank went off to look for wood.” Angel said. 

Sean tilted his head. “So did Uncle.” There was a pause.

“He wouldn’t.” Angel’s eyes widened. “He was the one who threatened _us._ ” 

There was another pause. “We could always remind him?” Angel ventured, tentatively.

“Yeah, but Uncle is scary.” Sean stated it flatly. “We tell Aunt, and then we run far, far away.”

“We tell me what?” Moira asked crisply, from behind them. Sean yelped.

“I.” Angel gulped. “Um.” She hissed to Sean, “This was your idea!”

“Hank’s gone gathering firewood.” Sean said. “And, uh, Uncle went after him?”

“Did he.” Moira’s face was calm. Her tone of voice was light and pleasant, but nevertheless, both younger Swords flinched back two steps. “Your concern is noted, but unnecessary.” She added serenely, “I currently am the guardian of the rocks, and he knows that.” 

“Er.” 

“And now, so do you.” Moira said. “Haven’t you both got work you should be doing?” She strode over to Charles, still staring dreamy-eyed at the stew.

 

“I know you’re there, Hank,” Erik called out to the uncaring forest. After a long moment of birdsong and leaf rustle, a twig snapped. 

From some distance behind him, Hank asked, “How could you tell, sir?”

“Mostly because when I said “I know you’re there,” you asked me how I knew, Hank.” Erik bent to pick up more firewood. He thanked night and day both that, for once, he _had_ actually come out to gather more wood for the cookfire, and not to release himself. He had the feeling that things would have been even hard - would have been even _more difficult_ if he’d had to talk to Hank while fighting down an erection.

Charles and Hank were both back to their pre-Shaking Fever attempts at seduction, and Erik wanted to get to the root of the problem. As it were. Hank shuffled up to him, holding out a branch. Erik took it.

“Hank,” he said, quietly.

Cautiously, Hank responded. “Sir.”

“If I actually ask you and Charles to stop doing… whatever it is that you seem to be doing around me, will either of you be able or willing to, ah, stop?” Erik asked, still quiet under the light racket of natural sounds around them.

Hank tensed. 

“Sir.” He hesitated, even more wary. “Er.”

“And do not even think about pretending not to understand what I’m talking about, please.” Erik kept his voice level. Hank blanched.

“Um.” Hank, with difficulty, managed to not hunch his shoulders. “Sorry, sir?”

“I mean, I’m gratified to know you both decided nobody’s going to beat you, if we’re annoyed, but--”

“You’re not-?” Hank cut himself off. “You’re not.” He said it a little more confidently, and despite himself, Erik softened.

“I would like to talk to both of you about this.” More gently, he said, “Preferably privately.” Hank brightened up. “I mean, I’d like to get a few things sorted out before we all embark for Genosha.” 

“Oh, yes, sir.” Hank brightened. “I’ll - the next town, sir,” Hank promised him fervently. “Charles and I will be ready whenever you want us.”

“Just… talk.” Erik had a vague feeling he might have made a mistake. He cleared his throat. “Talking. That’s. All.”

“Yes, sir.” Hank said smoothly.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik's plan meets Charles and Hank's plan. 
> 
> Guess which plan wins?
> 
> Go on. Guess.
> 
> :)

Finally seated in the private room he had requested, despite Moira’s advice against it, Erik was forced to acknowledge that his vague sense of misgiving had crystallised into a _very definite_ sense of having made a mistake. He had intended to kindly reassure his - reassure Hank and Charles that their freedom awaited no matter what; that they could stop trying to appease him through seduction, as it was (a) unnecessary and (b) going to be ineffective. 

“So, you don’t… have to do that,” Erik finished awkwardly, and stared at the table. He was actually glad the sturdy wooden structure stood between him and the two slaves. They clung together for a moment. He had not anticipated the silent and invisible clash of wills ensuing from his first blunt statement. Erik was determined not to hurt the pair; he had been slightly less than ready to realise this meeting had become some kind of test; and these two were not ready to see him fail.

“But - master – sir.” Hank amended his speech hastily as Erik winced. “You don’t - you are, um, you like what you see.” It wasn’t quite a question.

“I,” Erik said, before wisely deciding not to risk answering it, anyway. He absently poured out wine into three glasses.

“We can tell these things, sir,” Charles said, almost demurely. “But - why are you denying yourself?” He took one of the glasses of wine as he spoke, and handed the other to Hank.

“What?” Erik gaped.

“You - you said your marriage wasn’t--”

“That it was a business convention,” Charles cut across Hank, swiftly. “And that you find nothing wrong in men sharing pleasure.”

“Well, no.” Erik swallowed a mouthful of wine. He really didn’t, even when the men in question were not staring at him soulfully with their deep, deep blue eyes, and pronouncing the word “pleasure” as if it were an invitation. Erik wiped his forehead. Perhaps his fever was coming back. And just why had he felt the need to go into that much detail about his and Moira’s relationship anyway? It wasn’t as if he could break cover, not while they were still spying.

“So, why?” Charles began, in a reasonable tone of voice.

“Because you have no choice,” Erik said, harshly, and stood up, pacing to the window. “I - you know, in the eyes of Westchester, I - any of us could do _anything_ to either of you right now.” Neither man flinched. Erik wasn’t going to mention the other slaves Michal had brought, their eyes dead and their smiles empty as that foul man had listed their “skills.”

“But you _won’t!_ ” Hank said, rather louder than he intended. “Sir,” he lamely added as Erik turned back to face them.

“No,” Erik said. “I _won’t._ ” and perhaps, he thought later, if he had stopped _there_ , he might have managed to convince them. “I will not take advantage of any slave.” Erik’s voice was steely and he glared fiercely at the floor. Hank and Charles exchanged a long look of enlightenment. “That is rape; and--”

“But,” Hank politely interjected. “Sir, we’re not really slaves, anymore, are we? You don’t treat us like slaves, you never really have.” Erik stared at him. 

Charles gazed at Erik, eyes suddenly dark with anxiety. He licked his lips, and Erik gulped.

“You _are_ going to--” Charles began, and Erik could not bear the other man’s fear. He dropped back into his seat, no longer wanting to loom over the other two.

“Yes, yes, as soon as we place your feet on board a Genoshan ship, you’re free men,” he said, hastily gulping down the remainder of his wine.

“So we will be free.” Hank squeezed Charles’s hand reassuringly.

“I’ve said so, haven’t I? I don’t hold with slavery.”

Shyly, Charles asked, “So… you don’t see us as just slaves, then?”

“No?” Erik wasn’t quite sure how that was a wrong answer but he was pretty sure it was, when both Hank and Charles smiled.

“So you do want us. We’re not slaves to you; so why are you saying no?” Charles asked sweetly.

“Crap,” Erik said. He’d argued himself into a corner. Wait! “Because I want - I don’t know that you know what’s--”

“What’s best for us?” Hank continued the thought, gently, and Erik nodded.

Still sweetly, but with an icy edge, Charles asked, “So you don’t think of us as slaves, but _you_ still get to make the decisions for _us_?”   
“Um,” Erik said. “I.” He stared at them, tongue tied. They stared back. Erik took a deep breath.

“I don’t want to hurt either of you,” he stated quietly, voice warm with sincerity in the face of their curious, wary eyes. “That matters to me more than I can say.”

“We’ve been hurt before,” Hank said. “We’re still here.”

 _“Exactly. My. Point.”_ Erik bit each word off like a chunk of steel.

“But you won’t hurt us.” Charles leant forward across the table to take Erik’s hand in his. “You don’t want to. We don’t want you to. So you won’t.”

“I wish I had your faith,” Erik murmured, bowing his head.

Charles’ grip on his hand tightened. “You don’t trust yourself not to hurt us?” 

“Not what I meant. But. Maybe, yes,” Erik said reluctantly. “I’m not - I’m not good at this,” he added, somewhat redundantly.

“Well, if you don’t trust yourself, why not try yourself?” There was a distinct air of challenge in Charles’ voice now.

“What?”

“Mis-, uh, Magda, when she spoke to me, when I was ill…” Charles looked away. “She said that we didn’t have to trust you all, we just had to try you.” He turned back, and Erik was transfixed by his crystal-blue gaze. 

“We’re willing to trust, to try with you,” Hank added.

“So,” Charles said, briefly catching his lower lip between his teeth. “Are you?”

Erik thought about it. They were devious, these two. One by one his arguments had been neatly skewered. He could not pretend he did not desire either of them. And if they were to be treated as free; Erik could hardly order them not to try to seduce him, either. And… they were both very beautiful, and very brave. Qualities that drew Erik like no other.

“You’re devious,” he said, full of reluctant admiration. He took his hand away from Charles’ grasp and drank another mouthful of wine.

“Yes, sir.”

Erik did not reply for some time.

“All right, devious men.” He conceded at last. “I appear to have lost my--umpf!”

Hank darted round the table and kissed him. Charles grinned. Erik managed to pull himself away after a short internal struggle.

“-Argument,” he muttered, distractedly. Erik coughed, and braced himself as Hank moved to sit next to Charles again.

“One final question.” Charles and Hank blinked attentive eyes expectantly. Erik firmed his grip on his glass to keep from pouncing – now that he’d accepted what had once seemed an impossibility. The two of them were asymmetrically and unfairly attractive with their shared colouring; pale, pale skin and thick, dark hair. They didn’t hesitate to press their assets into play, either, parting red lips and moistening them with quick licks.

Erik took a deep breath. “Which of you wants to fuck me first?” Charles knocked his wine glass over. Hank gaped. “Or, if neither of you want to do that,” he quickly continued, “Whose cock do I get to suck first?”

“You want one of us to...” Hank trailed off.

“Suck _first?_ ” Charles echoed him. Erik grinned, wolfishly.

“Yes,” he said firmly. He was not interested in hurting or distressing either of them, but causing a mild amount of discombobulation seemed quite fun. A more serious thought struck him.

“I do have one important request,” he said, firmly. Hank and Charles leant towards him.

“What, sir?” Erik winced, minutely.

“That,” he said. “If we're going to be lovers, if we're going to... do this, I need. Well. I don’t want to be Master Magnus in here.” Erik swallowed. Hank looked at Charles. Charles looked back, also at a loss. “That's the name I wrote on your papers, I don't want to be that person here.”

“Oh.” Charles’ eyes were bright. “You want us to be equals?”

“In here,” Hank tacked on hastily.

“And in Genosha, yes.” Erik gentled his voice even further. “I - outside of this room, it's Westchester, I can't do much about that. But in here... I'm not Magnus.”

“What shall we call you?” Charles asked. Erik looked at him affectionately.

“Erik,” he said quietly. “In here, I'm just Erik.”

“Erik?” Charles and Hank said in near-unison, slowly, tasting the name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE THERE WILL BE SEXYTIMES NEXT CHAPTER.
> 
> It's all written. Just need to make sure it's physically possible and emotionally plausible. :


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SEXYTIMES YAY!

Charles squared his shoulders. He wanted this. He really did. Magnus - Erik! - he reminded himself hastily - would not hurt him. Would not hurt Hank. He swallowed, and pulled off his shirt, as Hank did the same. M-Erik was unlacing his shoes. Hank cocked an eyebrow at Charles; Charles returned a tiny nod in answer. Erik looked suddenly thoughtful.

“Charles.” He spoke softly, and Charles kept himself from flinching. “Is everything alright?” A little woodenly, Charles nodded. “I don't want to hurt you,” Erik said, not for the first time.

Abruptly, Charles was tired of the soft concern, the self-restraint. He didn't want pity; he was a survivor. He could take an equal part in this with Hank, for once. He stood up, and moved to stand in front of Erik, still crouched on the floor next to his discarded shoes.

“Then don't.” He bent to take Ma-- _Erik's_ mouth in a fierce kiss as Hank smoothed down the sheets on the bed. Erik chuckled into Charles’ mouth and kissed him back. He broke the kiss and stood up.

“All right. I won't.” And he kissed Charles again, walking him back towards the bed.

By the time the blankets nudged against the back of Charles' knees, he was more than ready to sit down. Erik's kisses were - well, they seemed to have some malign influence on Charles' legs, which seemed much less willing to support his weight than before. Erik smiled down at him for a moment, before raising his head to look at Hank. Charles felt the bed dip as Hank crawled onto it behind him. He was about to ask what he was supposed to do now, when Erik smiled again, and went to his knees as gracefully as anyone trained to it.

Erik laid his hands on Charles' thighs, reverently. Charles blinked. To be looking down at Erik seemed... odd. Behind him, Hank moved to peer over Charles' shoulder.

“Charles.” Erik’s voice was husky. “May I?” He moved his hands to the ties of Charles' trousers and tugged gently.

“I. Uh. Yes?” Charles lightly bit his lower lip, uncertain. Erik unfastened Charles' trousers and put his hands on Charles' knees.

“Oh, here, stand up just a bit--” Hank muttered, gripping Charles' shoulders and lifting him. Between them, he and Erik pulled Charles' trousers off. Erik's eyes lit up at the sight revealed. Charles gulped down his nerves.

He was used to being less clothed than others. He just wasn't used to having his appearance, he reactions scrutinised by people who wanted to bring him pleasure, rather than the other way round and-- His worried thoughts splintered into nothing as Erik moved forwards, tugging Charles' legs wider apart, before bending to kiss his cock. Charles sagged back against Hank's sturdy support at the sensation. Erik licked Charles' shaft, a long slow circling stripe from root to tip, and Charles's hips jerked. Erik moved to hold them steady.

“Mrgh,” Erik flicked warm blue eyes upward at Charles’ strangled gasp.

“Good?”

He nodded hastily, chest beginning to heave as his breathing quickened. Erik smiled and went back to work.

Charles' head thumped down onto Hank's shoulder. He stretched one hand, reaching for something, he didn't know what, but - Erik hummed around Charles' rapidly swelling cock, and Charles found himself unable to stop making noises. Hank took Charles' outstretched hand in his, and kissed him.

Erik cast a quick, reassuring glance up at them. He pulled off long enough to say, “You - if you want to touch my head, my hair. You can. If you want.” Charles nodded. Erik's eyes flicked to Hank's rapt face and he smiled a promise up at him, before he returned to paying court to Charles' cock.

Tentatively, Charles put the hand Hank wasn't holding onto Erik's head. His hair was thick, crisp, clean. Erik swiped his tongue across the head of Charles' cock and Charles jerked again. His fingers clenched, pulling Erik towards him by the hair. Erik made a little satisfied noise, low in his throat, and sucked a little harder.

“I,” Charles moaned, not quite wailing “I. Oh, oh, oh-!” Hank moved his free hand to caress Charles' chest, pinching and toying with his nipples very gently. He turned his head blindly, and Hank kissed him again. Charles let out a cry that was almost a sob.

With the closeness, the skin to skin contact, his maimed telepathy was sparking; intermittently allowing him to receive feelings and thoughts. It was nearly as pleasurable as Erik’s tongue. Hank's steady affection supported Charles unswervingly, as always. And Erik... Erik _loved_ what he was doing; always had. Loved the sharing of pleasure, loved being able to take a partner apart and put them back together again through bliss. And he cared for Charles; held him in his thoughts as if he were a person, as if he, Charles mattered. Loved even the slight pain in his scalp - Charles relaxed his grip quickly - that showed how much of Charles' formidable self-control was being eroded.

That had never happened before. Charles groaned, helpless and unafraid of it for the first time in his life. He was safe here, with Hank and Erik. Never before had his telepathy helped, rather than hindered. There was no slimy lust for Charles' pain, no greedy grasping at everything he could offer in selfish demand. No boredom, no anger. Erik was absolutely focused on the moment and his own mouth and Charles' rising, unbelievable pleasure, which he welcomed with a fierce delight.

“Erik,” Charles gulped urgently. He pushed at Erik's head. “Erik, I'm-I'm going to-”

 _Then come,_ Erik thought, unpausing. _Come on, come for me, give me this, please..._

Erik's yearning thoughts and busy mouth together tipped him over the edge. Charles let out another breathless cry and came in Erik's mouth and on his face and over his chest, uncontrolled spasms racking him from head to toe.

Erik sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth. He grinned, eyes glittering. Charles stared back at him, eyes dazed and face slack with pleasure. Hank stared over Charles' shoulder. Charles turned his head. They looked at each other for a long moment. Erik bit his lip. He hoped that he hadn't broken Charles; it had only been a simple blow job after all. He'd thought it best to start with something lower key.

“All right?” He asked, quietly. Both heads snapped round to focus on him. There was a silent pause, a tiny sliver of time that stretched oddly. Then, instantaneously, both of them _moved._

Erik's back hit the sheets on the bed with an audible thump. He blinked, and strained upwards to catch the nearest mouth with his own. It turned out to be Charles'.

“No one's ever, ever--” he muttered into Erik's kiss. Erik was alarmed to note he seemed on the verge of tears. He raised one hand to stroke Charles' hair. Charles ran his fingers through the slight mess on Erik's chest. Erik swallowed. His head was spinning.

“I - sorry, I--” he began. Erik jerked as Charles lightly pinched one of his nipples.

“Don't be,” Charles said.

“Ah - trousers?” Hank muttered, reaching towards Erik's waist ties.

“Sorry.” Erik raised his hips so Hank could strip him bare. Charles pinched his other nipple, and he swayed, unsteady.

“Ah!”This was - well, not too much, because Erik was experienced, he was--

“Told you.” Charles breathed delightfully into his ear. “Don't be sorry.” Erik gulped in a breath, tried to collect his scattered thoughts. He felt increasingly distracted by the sights and sensations of pale skin and warmth against his own flesh.

“What's-?” he mumbled. Charles laid a finger on his lips.

“Just getting myself ready,” Hank said, crouched naked at the end of the bed and fiddling with a small jar.

“You're--” Erik felt his words desert him as Hank put the jar aside and reached between his own legs with a glistening, oil-slicked hand.

“Going to ride you,” he explained. Erik groaned at that. “If you're - if you'd like--”

“Oh, burning night, _yes_ ” Erik said, low and fervent, and yelped as Charles took him in hand, stroking him into full hardness. Charles smiled, slow and dangerous.

“All right?” he asked, sweetly edged as Erik's eyes rolled back in his head.

“Mmmnhh!” Erik couldn't tell which was more exquisite; the hands on his cock or the sight of Hank fingering himself slowly open. He reached for Charles, clumsy with desire, and Charles granted him the distracting benediction of another kiss. Hank slunk up the bed and straddled his thighs.

“Erik, are you--” he mumbled, even as Charles gave over Erik's erection into Hank's gleaming hands.

“Please, yes, please--” Erik very nearly begged. Hank smiled, and proceeded to sink down, guiding Erik into place inside him.

Erik yelled as he slid home; Hank's tight warmth gripped him in slick, silken sensation. Hank moaned.

“Shhh.” Charles stretched across Erik to kiss Hank again. “Think of the neighbours.” Hank laughed into his mouth. And didn't move. Erik gritted his teeth and waited. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes. Charles broke away from Hank, and brushed Erik's hair away from his face.

“Hank...” Charles said, warningly, as Erik panted, and finally, finally, Hank began to move.

In the golden lamp light, Hank’s skin gleamed; chest and belly heaving with deepening breaths, muscles bunching and stretching in long thighs. He rose and fell in a steady rhythm over Erik, remorselessly riding him into the mattress. Erik's hands clenched, white knuckled on the bedsheets below him in a desperate attempt to maintain self-control. The pleasure was all but overwhelming. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, before he managed to remember his role could be more than a passive recipient of Hank's efforts in this. He had something to contribute, too.

Erik reached out for Hank's cock and found Charles' hands already there. Charles hummed, adjusting his grip on Hank's erection so Erik could get his hand around it too. Together they stroked away, and Hank groaned deep in his chest, like something dying.

Erik gasped; it would have been a laugh if he'd been able to spare the air. Charles grinned, twisted his oiled hands just so, and Hank tipped his head back and came with a shout that was almost a roar, spilling wet and warm between Erik and Charles' hands and all over Erik's stomach. The trembling spasms that raced through Hank's body as he peaked brought Erik to the point of no return. Charles moved to kiss Hank once again. Erik thrust one more time, cried out and came, transfixed by the sight and feeling both.

Hank sagged down against Erik's chest. Erik wriggled a little and slid out of the other man as gently as he could. Hank still twitched at the sensation. Charles slid off the bed and padded away.

“Sorry.” Erik mumbled, and tried to pet Hank's hair, in apology.

“Fer wha?” Hank muttered back. “That was...”

“A good start?”Erik said, hopefully. “I can be better for you.” Hank turned his head and stared at him.

“What?”

“I can be--” Hank crawled up a little and kissed Erik into silence.

“You… shut up about that. Shut up.” he said hoarsely. Erik blinked, and then Charles arrived with water and cloths and proceeded to mop both of them clean.

Erik stretched, then shifted over so there was enough space for Charles to lie down on his other side. He pulled Charles away from his fussing with cloths with one hand and tried to still Hank's restless fidgeting with the other.

“Come lie down,” he mumbled. “S'late.” A brief, bewildered pause followed. Erik tugged again; both of them tumbled down into his arms. Erik grunted in satisfaction, and closed his eyes.

Hank waved his feet about for a moment. Erik was about to tell him to stop it and go to sleep when Hank let out a little “Ha!” [] of satisfaction and pulled the top sheet and a blanket over them all with one foot and both hands. He laid his head on Erik's shoulder. Erik wrapped his other arm around Charles' oddly still form, and hugged them both tightly to him.

“Ah... Erik,” Charles said, tentatively. “You don't mind if I, if we--?”

“Later. Sleep now.” Erik kept his eyes firmly closed.

 

Some hours later, so deep into the night it was almost morning, Erik woke and listened to his bedmates' slow, regular breaths in the dark. He grinned at the ceiling overhead in secret, primitive delight. Charles and Hank had been so beautiful, so generous in sharing their affection and their pleasure. Erik flattered himself he had not been found wanting, at least, although he was sure there was room for improvement. They'd only come once, after all.

 _Mine._ he thought, at the ceiling, gleeful and perhaps a little sex-and-sleep-drunk. _For as long as they want; I get to have this._

He hoped it would be a long time; perhaps longer than them finding their feet in Genosha's court. He hoped they wouldn't be too angry when they found out the Eisenhardts were not a family of traders, but four Genoshan Swords on a mission from the heir to the throne. 

Abruptly, he hoped Moira would be understanding and only kill him a little for giving in to his desires and the two freedmen-to-be’s determined seduction.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences. Rocks. Reassurance.
> 
> The morning after the night before, in fact.

Charles woke slowly, drifting up from the heavy depths of sleep with surprising reluctance. He yawned and rolled over. Normally he slept lightly and awoke at a breath, as did every slave. But after last night’s discoveries, it was hardly surprising he’d slept well. Last night had been more than exhausting. It had been astounding, exhilarating, and joyous. 

Charles smiled into the sheets. He wriggled a little. He realised something was different. Something was missing.

“Hank,” Charles whispered. Hank muttered something and wound himself more firmly around Charles’ ribs, which creaked a little.

“Hank! Too tight,” he wheezed. Hank relaxed his hug instantly.

Charles smiled at the decided air of sleepy rebellion wafted towards him. “We’re missing an Erik. And a Magnus.”

Hank cracked open a single eye to stare blurrily up at Charles. He grunted reluctantly. “Early.”

Charles glanced at the light coming in around the shutters. “I don’t… think so,” he said, slowly. “Judging by the light, it’s past cockcrow.”

“We _overslept_?” Hank sat bolt upright, hair springing out in startled dismay.

“They’re not going to hurt us,” Charles reminded him, and stretched. His joints popped and crackled in protest, but he welcomed the easing of his aches.

Hank relaxed. “No, but - but we should probably, um, people will notice--”

“True. Let’s get going.” Charles sat up. Hank eyed him curiously as he shuffled into his clothes. Charles thought about whistling, but decided against it.

“Charles are you - are you alright? I mean--” Hank broke off. He didn’t want to remind Charles of past pain, but usually, after a night of bedroom service, Charles was tense, miserable, fearful. Charles gave him a warm, sweet smile.

“I’m fine.” He pulled on his shirt. Hank continued to look concerned. “I really am, Hank.”

“But usually--” Hank fastened the ties on his trousers and searched for socks.

“This wasn’t usual,” Charles said sharply. “I - Magnus, Erik, he’s not like _that_ , nothing like them. Not ever. You know that.” Hank nodded.

“Sorry.”

“And - you don’t know what _knowing_ that was like. What he felt like.” Hank cocked an eyebrow. Charles went pink. “Not his mouth, no, I mean - I could feel him.”

“His thoughts?”

“Feelings,” Charles said. “He - he likes us, but it’s not - like isn’t the word; not for this. He - I don’t know why, but he really - he cares. About us. Not just about enjoying ourselves last night, but, but- he _cares_ ”

Hank’s lips parted in wonder. Charles sat on the floor to pull on his shoes.

“He cares?” Hank murmured.

“Oh yes.” Charles suppressed a little shiver; the _depths_ of the man and his feelings were powerful, even in memory. “I got the feeling - he doesn’t let go easily.” Hank swallowed.

“Let’s get down there and see what needs doing,” he said nervously.

Charles drew him in for a quick hug, speaking gently. “I think it’s going to be all right.”

 

It was a peculiar scene that met their eyes when they located their masters, in the breakfast room of the inn. Even to Charles and Hank, somewhat accustomed to most of the normal oddness of Genoshans. Erik - no, he was still Magnus, outside of the bedroom, wasn’t he? Magnus sat at the table, arms folded defensively. He glowered at the tabletop. Everyone else at the table - Magda, Angel, and Sean - was glaring at him. Perched demurely on the battered tabletop, just in front of Magda, were two by now very familiar palm-sized rocks.

“Um,” Hank said. Every eye swivelled towards the two soon-to-be-ex slaves. They both froze, pinned in place by glances that were, in turn, worried, hopeful, and protectively angry.

“Er,” Charles added, after a short pause. Angel bounced up from her place and tenderly guided the two increasingly bewildered slaves to sit at the table. Sean thrust bowls of porridge in front of them.

“Eat,” he said, and went back to staring at Magnus.

“Pardon me,” Charles said, slowly. “Is there - is something wrong?” He edged closer to Hank. Had they done something wrong, last night? Was Magnus’s marriage perceived differently by the other person in it? His heart began to pound. Hank leaned his shoulder against Charles’.

“Did - did we--” Hank started to speak. Sean snorted. Hank shut up.

“ _You_ didn’t do anything wrong, darling,’” Angel said gently. Everyone went back to glaring at Magnus, who hunched his shoulders defensively and kept glaring at the table.

“Ah, that’s not… that’s not what it feels like,” Charles said, nervously. “Is this about last night? I - we’re very sorry, if--”

“You’re sorry?” Magda interrupted, her voice kind. “What about?”

Charles gulped, and squeezed his eyes shut. “Ah, um, askingEr-Magnus-to-sleepwithus?” he babbled.

“We - we didn’t mean to--”

“You asked him?” Angel asked, very carefully. They both nodded rapidly.

“He took a lot of convincing,” Hank said. Magnus’ shoulders relaxed a little, but he did not raise his head.

“I told you,” Magnus said to the table. “I am not a rapist.”

“Of course you’re - wait, did, anyone, did someone think--” Charles reached over, impulsively, to squeeze Magnus’ wrist. He felt a brief flash of anger - his own, not Erik-Magnus’; that anyone would misjudge this man so.

“Were you all - you all thought Master Magnus would take - would take advantage of us?” Hank was torn between amusement at the amount of concern every Genoshan seemed to have for his and Charles’s theoretical virtue, and anger on Erik-Magnus’ behalf. Didn’t they know the man any better than to think he’d do something they all thought was so wrong?

“We thought,” Magda explained quietly. “That you might have - with your past, you know, that there might have been some confusion on your parts--”

“Not about that,” Hank said. He leaned back in his chair and took a spoonful of porridge.

“We had to take advantage of him,” Charles added, sliding his hand into Magnus’. Taking it, Magnus tilted his head to give Charles a strange, crooked smile. Sean inhaled his next mouthful of ale, and started choking.

“It took some doing, but it was worth it,” Hank said. “I mean E-Master Magnus has a _magnificent_ \--”

“Thank you,” Magnus exclaimed promptly. “I’m sure they don’t need to know that, Hank.”

“We really, really, don’t,” Sean agreed, a little hoarsely.

“But to reassure you all,” Charles said firmly, even as his fingers trembled against Erik’s palm. “We had to argue our case; point out that we had free will and choice in this; we were only anticipating our, um, change of status by doing this and--”

“We wanted to, so we asked him and he said yes, but only if we called him Erik and promised to enjoy it.” Hank reached across the table to take Erik’s other hand. There was a quiet ripple all around the table. Magnus lifted his head and stared at his fellow Genoshans.

“So, no need for rocks?” Sean asked.

“No!” Hank and Charles said as one, bristling protectively.

“Why would you even think that?” Charles looked at them all plaintively. “Don’t you know him?” Erik turned his head and shot Charles a grateful smile.

“Not as well as you two, it seems.”

“I’m sorry,” Magda said to Hank and Charles. “We were just… worried.”

“It’s not us you need to apologise to. Mistress,” Hank said, politely. He kept his shoulders straight; his gaze met hers. Moira’s eyes’ widened. There was a short pause.

“Husband. I misjudged you. I am sorry for it,” she said at last, formally, to Erik.

He nodded slowly. “You had to ask. I’m sorry, Wife.”

Angel and Sean looked at each other, startled.

“Ah… is this going to happen the next time?” Hank asked delicately.

“This?” Magda repeated.

Hank’s lips turned down in disapproval. “Threatening our - threatening Magnus with his rocks.”

“It’s really not necessary,” Charles assured the table as a whole.

Erik’s face brightened in a sudden grin. “You’re both anticipating there being another time?”

“With your consent… lots of them, hopefully.” Charles smiled a slow, hopeful smile.

“Lots and lots,” Hank added, and licked his lips. Erik went a little pink.

Sean clapped his hand over his eyes and moaned, faintly.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genoshan attitudes to slavery cause a slight hitch at embarkation.
> 
>  
> 
> The author has hidden a terrible pun in this chapter. Can you find it?

The docks of Port Haven stank. Most docks did; for some reason, people living around them could never remember that about half of what the sea took away helpfully with one tide, would be returned the next, thoughtfully bloated with sea water and rotting. Seagulls wheeled and screamed, or fought over scraps, squabbling nearly as noisily as the sailors and other dock denizens. The berthed ships and their busy crews added their own noise to the background shouts and rumbles.

“Last stretch of the journey,” Erik said, encouragingly. Charles and Hank smiled, but they both looked strained. Sean let out a sigh of relief as he paid off the porters. They left, shooting filthy looks at both Eisnhardts and slaves. Erik’s refusal to overburden his slaves with heavy loads meant the porters had actually had to do the job they’d been hired for.

“Have either of you ever been to sea before?” Magda asked Hank. He shook his head quietly.

“No, Ma’am.”

“It takes a couple of weeks to get to Genosha.” Sean moved towards the sound of thin fiddle scraping. “Uncle, I think that’s a dice game. Can I?--”

“No.” Erik was curt. “Where’s that damn LeBeau ship berthed?” He stared around. “And stick close, all of you,” he continued. “This is a rough place; I don’t want to have to come break you out of a holding pen or cellar.” 

“Yes, Uncle,” the boy said, almost meekly.

“Around here, you’d probably better look in a ship’s hold,” Hank quietly suggested. Sean stared at him.

“The galleys are the best market for slaves. Most only last a year or two; so they’re always buying more.” Charles explained softly, sidestepping a puddle and scurrying after Magnus and Magda.

“They’re supposed to feed the dead ones to the live ones, too,” Hank muttered.

“That’s just nonsense,” Charles retorted over his shoulder. 

“Oh good,” Sean said weakly. “They work them to death, but they don’t practice cannibalism.”

“You don’t feed your livestock tainted meat.” Charles told him, pragmatically. “Assuming there was any meat left on them by the time they died.”

“Charles?” Angel asked gently, as Sean went several interesting colours in quick succession. “Can we maybe change the subject?”

“Yes, mistress.” Charles bowed his head, mock-humbly. “Sorry master.” Sean flushed as Angel giggled. Hank looked away, biting his lip. 

“Hey. You lookin’ for a Genoshan ship, fren’? Cap’n LeBeau?” The voice was low, and the accent wasn’t one Hank recognised. The speaker was a long, lean man, in need of some serious scrubbing, possibly even a de-barnacling. He tipped his grubby hat to Hank and winked. Hank shuffled back hastily towards the rest of his group.

“Yes master.” Hank kept his eyes low. Automatically he checked to see if his slave tag, like Charles’, was clearly visible outside his clothes. The long, lean man’s eyes narrowed.

“Hey.” Sean moved forwards. “Who’re-?”

“I’m from t’ Chere Amie; Captain said you’d be gettin’ in around now.”

“Uncle!” Angel called. Erik turned on his heel and paced back towards them.

“LeBeau’s turned up again, has he?” Erik grumped. “Let’s get moving.” Charles jumped aside as Erik strode past. The sailor’s eyes narrowed again. 

Silently, the sailor guided the party to a quieter pier. Swiftness and speed graced every line of the ship anchored there. Charles stared at her. Once onboard that ship, if she were Genoshan, and out of Westchestrian waters, he and Hank would become free men.

“Beautiful, ain’ she?” the sailor said. Charles nodded, unable to speak.

Somehow, Hank and Charles found themselves at the head of the party by the gang plank. Eagerly, they both stepped onto it at Erik’s nod, and hurried over the perilous gap. As he stepped onto the deck proper, Hank let out a long sigh. Charles thumped inelegantly to the deck next to him and they shared a grin.

“Genosha.” Charles said quietly. Hank nodded, shifting from foot to foot in his excitement. An angry shout came from the dockside. Charles turned. Nobody else had followed them onboard. Because, Charles realised with sudden anxiety, they were being prevented. 

Erik had shouted; he pointed to Hank and Charles. The sailors looked mocking.

“What’s happening?” Hank said, urgently. “Why aren’t they coming?”

“I don’t know, I - are they trying to steal us?” Charles went white in terror. “Is this ship not under the Genoshan flag?”

“No!” Hank snapped. “We - they can’t, they--” Charles jumped back onto the gangplank. 

He meant to scramble along it, back to shore but a sun-bronzed hand seized the back of his jacket and yanked him back on board. Furious shouts from the dock told him he’d been seen.

“Ey. Calm down, mon ami. You a free man, now.” A lazy voice informed him, amused.

“Please,” Hank stared at the man’s strange red-on-black eyes. “Please don’t st-steal us.”

“Please!” Charles added. Images rushed through his head: stolen in a port town, they’d both be chained to an oar before nightfall, and they’d been so close to freedom. So _close_.

“Liberatin’.” The sailor corrected him. The amusement faded from his voice as Hank and Charles clung together, their terror and mistrust obvious. “My ship, she flies under the Genoshan flag. Won’t have no slavers aboard her, she won’. Yer masters as was, they can get another ship.” 

Charles was shaking too hard to think. Or to listen. The sailor grabbed at him again, and he staggered back, towards the side of the ship. Far away he could see Angel, her shawl bulging strangely and Sean, his mouth open to shout. Magda and Erik were arguing furiously with the sailors on the dock. Charles sank to his knees.

“But - but they’re - our p-party, they’re Genoshan, too.” Hank tried to speak calmly though chattering teeth and white lips. He gave Charles a worried glance.

“Truly?” The sailor’s eyes narrowed. 

“Yes sir,” Hank said. “Please don’t s-sell us, please, we--”

“Weren’t you listening?” the sailor snapped. “Tryin’ to free you. Ain’t gonna--”

“But that’s what they were - Erik, uh, Magnus - they said they’d sponsor us to--”

“Citizenship, huh?” The sailor swore, in several languages. “An’ Erik - wait, you mean that’s Erik Lehnsherr down by my gangplank?”

“He - his name is Magnus Eisenhardt,” Hank said, puzzled. The sailor laughed. 

“Should ha’ realised.” He gestured to the sailors on the dock. With considerable relief, Hank saw that the cryptic signs were understood by the men on the dock; they allowed the Eisenhardts to begin boarding. Sean and Angel thundered up the gangplank, only to be pushed aside by Erik as he moved towards the sailor.

“Damn it, LeBeau!” he snarled. “What were you playing at?” The so-named LeBeau smiled sweetly and spread his hands. 

“Jus’ a little misunderstanding, is all. I won’t have slavers on my ship; you know that.”

“Charles?” Angel approached rapidly. “It’s all right, we’re here.” Charles nodded, drawing a shaky breath, but he was still trembling, so Angel felt entirely justified in hugging him. “It’s alright. We would never have left you,” she murmured into his ear. 

Sean looked at Hank. Hank looked back.

“Do you want a hug?” Sean offered dubiously. Mutely, Hank shook his head. There was a pause. “Can I have one?” Sean asked, very quietly. “I kept - I kept thinking about galley ships.” Sighing, Hank reached out an arm, and wrapped it around the younger man’s shoulders.

“Remy LeBeau.” Magda‘s smile was sweet and lethal. “What kind of a gambit was that?” 

“Sorry, Mistress.” The captain’s eyes were very wary now, as he kept looking between Erik and his wife. “Misunderstanding. Ol’ Remy here, he din’ realise these slaves were--”

“They’re not slaves.” Magda stated firmly. “Once your ship leaves these waters, _they are not slaves._ ”

“Right, right.” LeBeau nodded. “’Xactly what I was thinking.” He made frantic gestures to his crew. The sailors ran about. Ropes were untied. Sails began shaking down from where they’d been furled. 

Magnus snarled. “Idiot. You were expecting us.”

“Thought you were someone else. Din’t know you’d gone into the slavery business, brother.” Remy smiled. The smile faded as he took in the pale and shaken looks of the people he’d been trying to help. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “M’crew has standing orders; liberate anyone who’s not nailed down. Din’t realise you were already on y’way.” Hank nodded warily. Charles tried to smile. LeBeau winced.

“Get yourselfs sat down, an’ we’ll see to things after we’re underway, ‘kay?” he said.

 

A little later, Hank and Charles stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the port disappear into the distance. The glass of hot rum Angel had sweet talked out of the cook had gone a long way to settling his nerves and Charles’ sea sickness. 

“Not long now.” Charles said, eyes on the descending sun.

“Two weeks sailing with fair weather,” Hank responded automatically.

“Two weeks we get to share a cabin with Erik.” Charles grinned faintly.

“What about Sean?”

“Said he’d sleep in with the crew.”

A bell clanged wildly, and a ragged cheer went up.

“Hey! Eisenhardts! Come an’ do your thing!” LeBeau could really _shout_ when he wanted to, Charles thought. A small crowd began to gather. When Erik appeared, Charles smiled at him happily.

“What thing?” Erik asked.

Remy looked at him as if he were stupid. “Slave tags, mon ami. We’re into wider waters now; take ‘em off now, or I will.”

Erik’s face cleared, and he nodded, curtly. He stepped over to Charles, and drew his slave tag out on one finger.

“Ready, Charles?”

Charles nodded, eyes wide. Erik’s fingers pinched together. The chain Charles had carried welded around his neck since he was thirteen silently snapped in two. Erik pulled, and chain and tag poured themselves into his palm. Erik smiled at him, and moved over to Hank, where he did the same thing. 

Charles put a hand up to feel at his bare neck, uncertainly. He exchanged a glance with Hank.

“We’re.” He stopped. His throat was swelling, there was something wrong with his voice. “We’re free.”

“We’re free,” Hank repeated, equally dazed. “Free.” 

Sean let out a shrill whoop. LeBeau made a clucking sound with his tongue.

“Nah, nah, nah, you want more noise than that, man! Give ‘em here!” Erik shrugged, and turned the little handful of metal over to him.

LeBeau cast a considering eye over the crowd. He moved to the side of the ship.

“Today we got to be part of a good thing, ya filthy whoresons!” he yelled. A good-humoured laugh went up from the crowd. “Today we see two more good men pulled onboard the ship o’ freedom! And I say that calls for fireworks!”

“Fireworks?” Charles muttered. 

“Just watch.” Erik murmured back. “He has a Gift.” 

Remy threw the slave chains into the air, over the ocean. There was a strange whining buzz, and then they exploded, in a bright wash of colours.

“Oh my,” Hank said, fascinated. “How does he do that?” The captain started speaking again.

“An’ now, in conclusion: Let’s get drunk!”

The cheers from the crowd this time echoed across the open water.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late nights in the cabin.

It was late night - some random number of bells, probably. Erik opened his eyes to find moonlight pouring in through the porthole. The steady tread of a sailor on watch paced overhead. The slim lines of Hank’s shoulders and back gleamed silver in the shaft of light; by the slow, steady motion of his arms, he was rubbing his feet again. Erik sat up.

“Do they still hurt?” He spoke quietly, mindful of Charles, sprawled sleeping on his belly beside him. Hank looked at him from his perch on the hammock, and nodded. “Stretch out.” Erik said, gesturing. Slowly, Hank laid his right foot in Erik's hands. Erik began a gentle massage.

“Better?” he asked, after a few minutes. Hank nodded.

“I think it's the air. They'll get better, soon, I'm sure.”

“Or maybe a decent shoemaker,” Erik said. “There's at least one in the Capitol.”

“Do you-do you live there?” Hank looked away, through the porthole, worried.

“Sometimes.” Erik bit his lip; much more of this questioning and he'd have to lie to his lovers, or else blow his - and everyone else's cover sky high. “It's a big city.”

“I haven't done much living in cities.” Hank sounded thoughtful. “I - ooh, that's nice.” Erik quirked a smile. Charles rolled away and started to snore in a faintly raspy whistle.   
“No?” Erik reached over and pulled the blanket over Charles' shoulder.

“Mostly towns,” Hank said, after a pause.

“Well, you might like it. Other foot.” Hank switched feet. “But I'm sure you can live anywhere you want.”

“We might - does being a new citizen affect that?” Hank suddenly asked.

Erik shook his head.

“We're - as your sponsors - bound to support and mentor you for a year, and we're likely be based in the city for that long at least, but after that--”

“You're what?” Hank's foot spasmed in Erik's hands. Erik rubbed a little more firmly.

“Well, obviously, we'd like - I'd like - to be friends with you both for longer, but that will be your choice.” Erik said, a little wistfully. Charles mumbled something indistinct. 

“Us too,” Hank said. “But what does support mean?”

“Oh, the usual support.” Erik evaded Hank’s look.

“Just - housing, food, clothing, that kind of thing,” he murmured. “Maybe education.” 

Hank swallowed. He pulled his foot away and swung back and forth in the hammock, staring at Erik. “Are you - we will get jobs, we can pay for ourselves, we're not, not--” Hank’s voice rose slightly, tension stiffening his frame.

Charles rolled over, and his eyes were open.

“Hank's right,” he added quickly. 

“I am absolutely sure you both can.” Erik said gravely. “But we're not going to put price tags on your needs. We have the resources now, and you have the need.” He held up a hand as the other two began to protest “In the future, who knows? Maybe we'll need help, and you'll be willing to--”

“Always,” Hank said fervently. Charles murmured his agreement. Erik smiled. 

“In any case, you will be free men, and citizens of Genosha,” he said. “There's a nice ceremony. You get to make your oaths of commitment, and we make ours--”

“Sounds like a marriage.” Charles sat up. Erik turned and kissed him. They shuffled along the bunk to make room for Hank, climbing out of the hammock. 

Erik found himself sandwiched between the two and prayed for strength.

“Just remember,” he said, a little apologetically. “I'm older than the pair of you. Please treat me with understanding. If I'm not as resilient.”

Hank snorted into his mouth. He pulled away from Erik to say, “You always put more effort in, anyway,” before returning to his kissing.

“We know.” Charles breathed into Erik's ear as his hands suddenly got very busy. “We'll just have to... try harder.”

“Burning night.” Erik gasped prayerfully, and was submerged. Again.

 

“How much older are you, anyway?” Charles asked, some timeless period later. He sounded as cool and collected as if he'd just come from the baths instead of, well, just coming.

“Ngk.” Erik said. “Uh. Thirty five.” He concentrated on catching his breath. “You?”

“My papers go back twenty years,” Hank had twined his fingers with Erik’s, the long length of him warm along Erik’s side. “I'm probably twenty five, twenty six.”

“I'm twenty seven.” Charles muttered tightly. He coiled his arms around himself.

“Babies.” Erik scoffed affectionately, and folded them both close.

“Not really.” Charles said. He shifted onto his elbow. Erik let him go. Charles began trailing his finger's over Erik's chest, gently.

“Anyone younger than you is a baby.” Erik said.

“What does that make m... Sean and Angel?” Hank asked curiously.

“Fetuses,” Erik said decisively. They laughed. “Years are only one way of marking age, though.” 

“Oh?” Charles hummed, and rubbed his thumb over Erik’s nipple. Erik twitched as he felt himself try, and fail to rise to the occasion.

“Aghk,” he said. “Have mercy.” Charles laughed, stilling his hand, but left it on Erik's chest. Hank put out a hand and grasped Charles' across Erik's cheerfully exhausted body.

“There're other markers,” Erik pointed out, bringing up his hand to clasp theirs. “In the past, in Genosha, you weren't a man till you’d killed a mountain lion, a man, and found a piece of iron ore to turn into mountain steel.” 

“Why did that change? And when?”

“Ran out of mountain lions,” Erik said promptly. “Now it’s other first times, I guess.”

“When was yours?” Hank asked, curious. Erik turned his head on the pillow.

“I told you, we ran out of mountain lions--”

“Not that first time,” Hank clarified, patiently.

“Oh.” Erik gathered his thoughts. “Girl or boy?”

Charles snuggled in closer, fascinated. “First.”

“I was sixteen. She thought I was a handsome lad who was sorely in need of tempering.”

“So?”

“So she took me in hand. Took her a few weeks. She had such a sharp tongue. I swaggered so much about the place I nearly fell over!” Erik laughed. “It wasn’t until later I realised how… charitable she must have been.”

Charles and Hank locked gazes, seized by the image of this other Magnus or Erik, a cocky boy with Erik's blue-grey eyes and all the burning confidence of youth. The silence stretched. 

Normally, Erik would have asked his partner about their first times, but - his fingers moved, almost of their own volition, over Charles' scarred back, - not with his lovers' pasts being what they likely were.

“I’d have liked to meet you then.” Charles murmured. Hank nodded. Erik’s mouth twisted in a rueful smile.

“I don’t think you would have done. I was… arrogant. And angry. I didn’t know how much I needed to learn.” 

“Angry?” Charles repeated softly.

“The fact that life is unfair and I was not the central actor in the universe displeased me, at the time,” Erik said, lightly. Hank and Charles grinned. Erik went back to stroking Charles’s back.

“You feel happy,” Charles said, a little shyly.

“Hmm?” Erik hummed drowsily.

“I - skin touching - I have a little of my Gift left.” Charles said, and did not cringe. He had faith in Erik, now. 

“Oh.” Wonder lightened Erik’s voice, sparkled off his skin. “You read minds?”

“Before the fever, yes,” Charles said. “But I got sick when we were in the city for the season, so--” he trailed off. Erik rubbed his back soothingly.

“You know,” he said, struck by a new thought. “I know a telepath or two, at home. If you'd like, if you - we could arrange a consultation?”

“I.” Charles said. “I - it's been gone so long.” He bit his lip. It could not be possible. He could not have so much; his friend, his freedom, Erik, and telepathy. Surely there would be some penalty extracted, just for wanting so much?

“But never completely,” Hank reminded him.

Erik eased Charles' bitten lip out from between his teeth.

“Don’t hurt yourself. And… only if you want to,” he said. “Once you're citizens.”

“We’re going to be Genoshan,” Hank said to Charles, with wonder.

“Yes,” Charles replied. “We are.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank dreams. Remy LeBeau helps him to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some rigging involved, and I would ask anyone who knows techical names or details for Age-of-Sail type ships to brace themselves for inacuraccy and vagueness. Sorry.

Hank stumbled out of the cabin. Charles and Erik were both still sleeping, but he knew if he stayed, the miasma of horror from his nightmare would, inevitably, be detected and wake them up. He didn’t want that. A safe distance away from the closed door, he stopped and tried to breathe more calmly. It had been a dream. Only a dream. Only-- A hand clapped down on his shoulder, and Hank nearly startled out of his skin.

“Argh!” 

“Jumpy, mon.” The low, drawling accent of the ship’s captain reassured Hank this was no stray element of his dream. He looked up to see the red-on-black eyes observing him sharply, edged with concern.

“I-I’m sorry, sir.” Hank was still careful, even after a full week onboard, to give the captain, the ship’s ultimate authority, the proper respect. 

“Y’not my crew, y’don’ have to “sir” me all the damn time,” Remy LeBeau stated. 

Hank nodded. “Yes, sir.”

LeBeau sighed.

“Come on.” He pulled at Hank’s sleeve, and Hank, habitually obedient, turned to follow him up the ladder and onto the deck. The night seemed very dark around their ship, surrounded by nothing but waves and distance.

“Dawn soon,” LeBeau said softly. “Now. What’s got you all shook up? Trouble in paradise, hey?”

“I don’t understand what that means,” Hank wearily rubbed his face. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t want to disturb them, but I couldn’t stay in there.” The captain nodded, and strolled a few paces away to have a quiet word with one of the sailors on watch. The sailor nodded to Hank; he found himself returning the gesture.

Returning, LeBeau asked, “Well, if all be well with the three of you, what else is it?” 

Hank looked away for a moment. “It’s not - not anything that’ll affect the crew or the ship,” he prevaricated.

LeBeau’s eyes sharpened. “Not what I asked, mon ami.”

“It’s just - I dreamed.”

LeBeau nodded understandingly. “An’ what did you dream, got you still shook up?” Softly, the captain told him, “You awake now.”

“I-I know that sir,” Hank said, “I do.” He folded his arms across his chest, and shifted. He was uneasily aware that he’d left his shoes and his coat back in the cabin.

“I--” Hank shivered. “I dreamt I woke up,” he said. “Michal leant in the door of the barn to tell us our tasks for the day.”

“Who’s Michal?” LeBeau spoke softly, but his tone grew harder. Hank swallowed.

“He. He traded us t-to Magnus because he didn’t have the coin to pay his debt another way.” 

“He a bad man?” Le Beau glanced away, apparently casual.

“No worse than most of my owners,” Hank said frankly. “He wasn’t - he didn’t like pain for pain’s sake. It was just time to get up and stop dreaming. I was awake. There, not here.” Hank wrapped his fingers around a nearby rope, trusting to the rough texture to convince his hands that he was awake and they could stop trembling now.

LeBeau nodded. Ran his fingers through his wild hair. Then, he clapped Hank on the shoulder, and muttered, “Come on.” And promptly swarmed up the rope. He looked down; feet braced in the rigging, and beckoned, one handedly.

“What?”

“I see your feet. You got a Gift, fren’. Come climb with me.” He clambered up a few feet further. “Don’ make me come back down and get you!”

Hank set his teeth and began to climb. The captain led him on a dancing path of ropes and sails and spars, but always, they climbed higher. Hank swallowed nervously, and held on tightly.

“Do - do we need a line?” he asked, as LeBeau took a breather on top of the mainsail.

“Day they have to tie me to my ship is the day they bury me, friend,” the captain said. “An’ Chere Amie, she’s a good ship. She won’ let you fall, neither.” He smiled, starting to climb again. Hank sighed and followed him up.

He certainly had to admit being this high over the deck was a distraction from the vexing question of whether he was dreaming or not. The lurch in his stomach seemed to cast the deciding vote for “awake,” anyway.

Above him, LeBeau swarmed hand over hand into the crow’s nest, and leaned out to wave encouragingly at him.

“You know you awake when the wind’s in your hair!” he called, and pulled Hank the final perilous few feet into the basket of the crow’s nest.

This high above the deck, there was certainly plenty of wind. And movement. The crows’ nest rolled with the ship, swinging from side to side in a stately fashion. Hank clung to the ropes and gazed at the limitless sea surrounding them on every side. Far off, he could see tiny lights on the water. Perhaps they were from other ships. He wondered if any of them held people in their crow’s nests, looking back at the lanterns burning on the Cherie Amie. The captain hit him on the arm with a flask.

“Drink up.” Hank looked at the bottle, wary.

“Jus’ grog,” the captain said. “Even ol’ Remy, he don’t drink neat rum up in the crows’ nest.” Hank pried off the top and took a swig. The watered, spiced rum hit the back of his throat, and he coughed.

“That’ll put hairs on your chest,” LeBeau said, borrowing the bottle to drink himself. Hank blinked the tears out of his eyes and smiled. He felt the captain’s sharp, assessing gaze on him.

“You ain’t never been to sea before?” Hank shook his head. “You climbed the rigging fast as me, almost; you got a gift beyond your feet?” Nervously, Hank nodded. LeBeau pressed the bottle back in his hand. Absently, Hank took another swig.

“Well, you ever lookin’ for a job, you come see me,” the captain said, quietly. “I know a fair few ships, good men, that don’t go down Westchester way. Man with your skills, they’ll snap you right up, ‘f I say so.”

“I - you’re very kind,” Hank said.

LeBeau shook his head. “I know a good thing when I see one, s’all.” Hank dropped his gaze, bending his neck as if staring at the deck below.

“Head up, man,” LeBeau said. “You an’ your friend already walked out o’hell. Mebbe you forget when you’re asleep - up here you remember.” Hank jerked his chin up and stared at the sea and rapidly lightening sky.

“Now,” LeBeau said, brightly. “Tell me that ain’t the finest sight you ever saw!” He gestured widely, looking ready to grab the whole world. 

Hank squinted. The far horizon was paling with the first wash of dawn light.

“The sea?”

“An’ the sky.” LeBeau spread his arms expansively. “And beyond them…” He pointed. Hank stared after his finger. Lying low in the waves, he thought he could see a faint grey smudge.

“Is that land?” he asked, after a pause. LeBeau laughed.

“Genosha, fren. Jus’ sticking her head above the waves to call you home.” Hank clenched his hands on the edge of the crow’s nest and stared. The little smudge seemed darker, more real, already.

“Genosha.” He breathed the name.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further conversations on board ship. 
> 
> Sean's sensibilities are still delicate.
> 
> Charles' ignorance of Genoshan history is discussed.

“Is Hank still in the rigging?” Sean asked, unsurprised by now at _not_ seeing him on deck or below. The sails belled out full above, the hearty wind whistling through the deck railing where Sean and Charles sat, dangling their legs and having to hold down the pages of Sean’s practice ledgers.

“He likes it up there.” Charles defended his absent fellow. “He’s very flexible.”

“I… don’t want to know that,” Sean said, rubbing a shoulder where he’d been sunburned. Unlike Charles, who, as it turned, out, could tan, though they were both freckling mightily from days under the warm sun. This morning, it had retreated behind a high series of layered clouds, ribbed and ruffled by the same swift winds that drove the ship.

Charles laughed. “Honestly, Sean, not everything we can do needs to be about having sex with Erik.”

Sean flushed. “Still don’t want to know!” he repeated hastily, seeing the glint in Charles’ eye.

“You’ve come on brilliantly with your bookkeeping,” Charles soothed him. “Keep improving like that, and I won’t have to tell you any details at all.” Sean turned back to his books, grumbling.

“I gotta admit, cousin,” Angel drawled from Charles’ other side, nose half-buried in a Westchestrian novel. “Giving you too much information’s like the best motivator _ever._ ” Sean made a face.

“Be careful, Sean - the wind’s changing,” Erik said over Charles’s shoulder. Charles turned and smiled up at him, brilliantly. Angel wanted to make cooing noise, but self-preservation restrained her. Erik had a look in his eye and a set to his shoulders that warned her it wouldn’t be a good idea.

“Where’s Hank?” Erik asked. “I - we need to talk, before we head into port.” Charles tensed and pointed upwards, silently. “It’s not - nothing bad.” Erik hurried to say. Charles gave him a short nod, but did not relax.

“Uncle?” Angel asked, standing. “Should we l--”

“No, this concerns you, too.” Moira approached to say. “Captain LeBeau has promised us privacy, for the moment.” Charles vigorously waved at the rigging, and presumably, Hank.

Moira wavered for a moment and then squatted on the deck next to Sean. Angel shuffled over, making a rough circle on the salty bare planks of the _Cherie Amie_. Erik and Charles stayed standing. After a few seconds, Hank appeared. He slithered down a rope, scampered along a spar, and wound his feet in the rigging to dangle in front of Erik and kiss him. Upside down. Erik made a startled noise as Hank flipped himself over to drop neatly on the deck at his feet.

“Whoa,” Sean gasped, deeply impressed.

Charles applauded dryly. His fellow ex-slave shot him an unrepentant grin, bright-eyed and red-cheeked. A light flush and toothy grin graced Erik’s face before he folded up his long limbs and sat, gesturing to Charles and Hank to do the same.

“I have a couple of questions for you in a little while,” Erik said, sobering. “But we also--”

Magda interrupted quietly. “We feel we need to tell you some details about who we are and what we do.” Charles and Hank stared at her.

“D-do?” Charles asked, warily.

“We’re not traders,” Sean said hastily.

“Not just traders.” Angel corrected him. Hank and Charles shared a long look with each other and did not quite roll their eyes.

“That doesn’t surprise you?” Erik asked mildly. Their gaze flashed back towards him.

“We were reasonably certain _something_ was going on,” Charles said. “It couldn’t all be because you were Genoshan.”

“Or crazy,” Hank muttered, under his breath.

Erik smiled at them. “We’re working for the Crown,” he said. “Gathering information - no harm intended to Westchester!” he added quickly. Moira sighed.

“You honestly think we’d _care_?” Charles was wry. “Slaves have no country of their own, you know.”

“You - is your name really Erik or Magnus?” Hank asked, brows pinching inward. “Because I don’t think many spies trade under their own names, so--”

“Quite right, Hank,” Moira said. “I’m Moira McTaggert, and this is my teammate for this mission, Erik Lehnsherr.”

“That’s the name the Captain called you,” Hank said. “When he tried to liberate us.”

“Is that why you wanted us to call you Erik in the bedroom?” Charles asked, sweet as milk. Erik nodded, coughing. Sean put his face in his hands.

“Partly. And, as I said, Magnus’s name was on the papers. Mine wasn’t.” 

“Sean and I are Sean Cassidy and Angel Salvadore,” Angel stated gravely, while her eyes danced with friendly laughter. “But we’re not related.”

“But if you were undercover…” Hank said. “Why did you take us?” He leant forward, fascinated.

“We must have looked like an awful security risk,” Charles shivered a little. The wind picked up briefly, whipping Angel’s hair out like a flag and ploughing furrows in Charles’ before subsiding. He could blame the frisson along his nerves on that.

“Traders wouldn’t turn down a payment for a debt,” Moira said, eyes shadowed. “So we had take someone from Michal.”

“And the children - we couldn’t have employed them.” Erik’s mouth thinned with bitter self-recrimination.

Moira’s eyes closed, her voice soft. “Or taken them with us as well.” She snapped her gaze back to Charles and Hank. “We had to make a hard decision, and I’m sorry we could only--”

“Only?” Hank interrupted. “Only free two of us? Do you know how likely it was we’d have ended in a brothel, or a galley?” His voice shook. “Please - do you know how miraculous you are? All of you?”

“We were getting old,” Charles said. “No future in keeping us, so we’d have - wherever we were, we’d have ended up just - worked till we dropped.” He shivered.

“Not so old for free men,” Sean snarled, suddenly, fiercely. “Not so old at all.” Angel re-wrapped her shawl around Charles’ shoulders.

“Erik Lehnsherr and Moira McTaggart and Sean Cassidy and Angel Salvadore,” Hank said thoughtfully. “An interesting group.”

“And Charles and Hank.” Moira gave them a little smile. “You’re both part of us now, too.” Charles smiled back. Hank looked at the deck and flushed.

“Hey,” Sean said, thoughtfully. “What surnames are you two going to use?”

“Surname?” Hank turned to him, blank-faced. “I don’t--” Charles put a hand on his arm.

“Are there rules?” he asked softly.

“To surnames?” Sean shook his head. “Just - bastards get their dad’s first name as a surname, sometimes, is all.”

Hank frowned.

“I don’t know my parents’ names. Not for sure. But the first name on my papers is a McCoy.” Hank spoke more to himself than anyone else. “I - if they were, if they bought me from a parent, I’d - I’d have been Hank McCoy. Before.”

“Henry looks more dignified,” Angel said, gently. Hank smiled at her, but shook his head.

“You _can_ read, then?” Erik asked. Hank didn’t flinch. It was alright to know such things, now.

“And write. Charles taught me.”

“Risky but worth it,” Charles said. “The trick is not to let on that you can; then they don’t hide letters and things from you.”

“And the more you learn, the more you can do to protect yourself,” Hank added. “But that’s not important right now.” 

A small silence sprang up, and for a while there was no talking, only the noise of the ship at sea, the wind sighing through the railings and beating against the sails, hawsers creaking and sailors calling out to one another, intent and busy. The salt air filled Charles’ lungs, and he breathed deeply, as if he could never get enough.

“Xavier,” he said suddenly. “I-I was Charles Francis Xavier. Before. I _was._ ”

“I... that’s an old name,” Erik murmured. Charles gave him a tight smile.

“It was. I was the last. There was a lot of land and money attached, which is why Kurt and Cain sold me away from it.” He shrugged, staring ahead at the blue-green expanse of the sea, unwilling to sink into the darker memories of his past.

“Kurt and Cain,” Angel repeated, eyes bright.

“Marko. Stepfather and step brother.” Charles wound himself more tightly in her shawl.

“Hey, boss,” Sean said. “Can I go kill them? _Please?_ ”

“Not until you’re certain they’re still alive.” Erik’s expression matched Sean’s. “And only if you invite me along.” 

“But... I mean…” Charles stared at them.

“Told you before,” Sean said. “Family’s family. Someone hurts your family, you get to go kill them. Only if you can’t bring them to court, I mean.”

“Oh,” Charles said, weakly.   
“Oh.” Hank blinked rapidly.

Softly, Angel asked, “What about your sister?” Charles stared at her. Erik could have kissed her. He had avoided asking Charles about his token ever since he’d first had the tale from him.

“What?”

“You said she gave you your token,” Angel reminded him. Charles flushed.

“I,” he said. “I’m rather afraid I wasn’t completely, ah, accurate about that. I didn’t have a sister.”

“Oh,” Angel deflated.

“Where did it come from, anyway?” Hank asked. “You’ve never said.” Charles looked away.

“I - it was a long time ago.” Charles swallowed, the muscles in his throat working visibly.

Erik held his breath. Moira leant forward. Charles started to speak again.  
“I was - my father had died, and my telepathy was gone - I used to climb out of the house and go exploring through the streets. One time there was a little boy. Younger than me, and he was so scared--” Charles closed his eyes, remembering. “And hungry. He was trying to sell it, and he was nearly in trouble. It was a rough area. So I pretended he was my brother and pulled him home by the ear.” He smiled.

“He - he told me to call him Raven, once he stopped trying to kick me, and he stayed for a while. I kept him hidden in the attic, mostly. One day I came home from some tea party my mother insisted I had to go to, and he was gone. I couldn’t blame him; I knew he didn’t want - well, the house wasn’t entirely happy, even before my mother met Kurt.” Charles pulled the token out of his pocket and gazed at it. “He’d left this behind, so I kept it. I’d really wanted a brother.” 

“Um,” Sean said.

“The child’s name was Raven?” Erik asked. “You’re sure?”

“He - he might have had a Gift,” Charles said slowly. “He - he went blue sometimes, when he was sleeping.” Charles looked up to find all four Genoshans staring at him, mouths open. “What?”

“Ah - Charles,” Moira briefly pulled her upper lip between her teeth, and then started again, gently. “How much recent Genoshan history do you know?”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further discussion of history, and arrival at the docks! 
> 
>  
> 
> The author's decision to start mining another fandom for minor OC character names begins to become apparent.

Hank and Charles stared at the rapidly approaching Genoshan docks, and tried to process the new information and their very varied feelings. Hank was highly amused. Charles was not.

“You didn’t know.” Hank grinned.

“Shut up,” Charles said, brightly.

Hank sing-songed, “You didn’t know you were a hero in Genosha.”

“Shut up,” Charles said again. He refused to blush.

“You didn’t know you’d rescued a princess,” Hank chanted.

“Really. Shut up,” Charles said. “Any time now, in fact.”

“I think it’s noble.” Angel joined them at the ship’s rail.

“Romantic, even,” Sean sighed. “A noble--”

“You can both shut up too,” Charles said, before gulping nervously. Angel’s face split open in a beaming grin, and she darted in to kiss him on the cheek. Hank growled.

“Don’t tell Erik.” Angel winked. “It was only out of my respect for your heroic qualities.” Hank subsided. Sean laughed. Very gently, Charles began banging his head on the nearest available wooden surface. A weathered hand interposed itself between the rail and his forehead.

“Be kind to m’ship, hero,” Remy LeBeau drawled. “She took you out o’ slavery and delivered you to freedom.” He paused, looking at Charles with sharp dark eyes, and went on:

“Be kind to y’self, too. Got a good head on your shoulders, if you were rescuing royalty back when you were ten.”

“I didn’t know who he - she - was! I just thought – he - she was another child in trouble!” Charles burst out, slightly louder than intended. Remy’s face softened.

“‘Xactly so,” he pointed out. “That makes the story even better.” Charles sighed.

“It’s not like it’s all that important. I mean, it was years ago. I won’t be putting myself forward about or - or anything.”

Whoever Raven-the-princess is now, Charles doubted she’d remember him. Or want to be reminded of the death of her mother. Even if she actually believed Charles was the person who’d helped her back then, which was unlikely.

“Won’t have to,” Sean said cheerfully. Charles frowned.

“I’m hardly going to be _meeting royalty_ , now, am I?” There was a pause. Sean, Angel and Remy LeBeau began to laugh. Hank and Charles stared.

“Am I?” Charles asked, uncertainly.

“My frien.’” The captain wiped his eyes. “Who do you think dey all _work for?_ ”

“The Crown,” Hank said promptly. “That’s what Erik said, but that doesn’t mean--”

“We’re all Swords of Genosha,” Sean told them, a little proudly. “The King’s bodyguards and defenders. Raven is his only child and heir; we guard and serve her, too.”

“An’ they’re spies and suchlike. When needed,” LeBeau added.

“Erik’s First Sword,” Angel said quietly. “The leader.” Charles gulped.

“The leader? Of, of, everyone? He’s not married.” Angel nodded. “Are you?” Charles flushed scarlet when she giggled. A stupid question.

Angel smiled at them kindly. “No Sword marries or has children. It’s part of our vows.”

“Ah.” Despite Hank’s bland tone, his shoulders tightened with worry.

“Doesn’t mean we can’t have lovers,” Erik said from behind them. Charles jumped a little, before turning to see Erik’s shark-grin, bright as the sun overhead. “Ready to disembark?” Hank smiled back – he had heard the quiet steps behind. He rested a comforting hand on Charles’ wrist.

“I – Erik, do people have to know--” Charles asked, worried.

“About rescuing my lady? Not before she knows we’ve found you,” Erik reassured him. He wasn’t sure why Charles was uncomfortable about it, but he was. “LeBeau knows how to keep a still tongue,” he added, meaningfully. LeBeau grinned, black-red eyes glittering.

“That I do. An’ I will. Again.” He darted off to shout at his sailors some more.

“As soon as we get to the shore, we need to head straight for the harbourmaster’s office,” Erik said. “All of us. It’s vital we get your citizenship confirmed as soon as we can; I don’t want you to be listed in any Genoshan records as slaves.”

“We’re ready to go wherever you want us to,” Hank murmured.

“The captain said he was porting all our gear up to someone called Logan.” Charles’ pulse quickened as he thought of freedom and citizenship and hope. Erik nodded.

 

They scarcely had time to look about them at the docks. Erik hustled them all - Moira carrying some bundle she refused aid with - to the tall tower at one end of the harbour with remarkable speed. He nodded briskly to the man-at-arms lounging near the door.

“Party from the _Cherie Amie_ to see Ororo, please.” The man - well, woman-at-arms promptly straightened.

“Citizenship?” she inquired. Erik laid a hand on Charles and Hank’s shoulders.

“These two, Dana,” he said softly. The woman-at-arms grinned, nodding in respect and approval, and bowed them all inside with amused gestures of welcome.

The tower was built of tall, clean-dressed stone, no paint or limewash applied. Inside the staircase, vertically slit windows held no glass, allowing the passage of air and light. The spiral steps twisted around and around. Charles felt dizzy. He could hardly believe this was happening, even now. Sean turned his head to grin companionably over his shoulder.

“Few more steps and it’s all done!” he said gleefully.

They emerged onto a landing, where a secretary smoothed his beard and stared at them.

“Six to see Ororo,” Erik announced. “Urgent application for citizenship to be filed.”

“Have you just arrived in Genosha?” asked the secretary, briskly.

Moira directed a cool gaze at him. “Hiram, you know me.”

“Yes, Sword Moira, but--”

“We stepped off the ship not an hour ago,” Erik said curtly. “Our last port of call was Port Haven, Westchester.” Hiram’s eyes widened.

“Hiram McDaniels, who’s that distracting you outside my door?” A light voice - a woman’s voice - called from the next room. Hiram flushed and went to the door. A low-voiced conversation followed, and then Hiram stepped back, gesturing them to enter. He went back to his desk.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The interview in the harbour master's office turns into something a little more cloak and dagger than expected, and I, the author am not apologizing either for that pun or for using the names of Night Vale people for the OCs.
> 
>  
> 
> About... two chapters of this left. *tilts head* Give or take.

The harbourmaster’s office was full of documents. Scrolls and books and piles of paper filled every shelf; the shelves ran from ankle level to the high stone ceiling on three of its curving walls. The fourth had a larger, glassed window that overlooked Hammer Bay and the harbour, pouring clear sea light into the room and lighting up stray dust motes like star sparks. 

“Erik Lehnsherr? What can I do for you, First Sword?” The speaker was a dark-skinned woman with a face as darkly beautiful as her voice, and hair whiter than new milk. Hank blinked at her. Charles shuffled along, a little reluctant, staying close to Erik.

“Storm,” Erik said. “I--”

“We’re here to register two new citizens,” Angel interjected. Erik turned to her in surprise. Ororo’s face brightened and she smiled, sharp and delighted.

“So?” she asked. “Who stands as sponsor?” Erik opened his mouth.

“We all do,” Sean interrupted. Startled, Erik closed his mouth.

“I have here the banker’s draft for their surety,” Angel said smoothly. Storm held out a hand. Angel placed yet more paper in it. Storm sat down behind her desk, considering it with a grave look.

“But - I was going to--” Erik started. He trailed off.

“I got there first.” Cheerfully, Angel shrugged a shoulder at him. “Next time, move faster, boss.” Erik blinked at her. She beamed at him, unrepentant.

Storm spoke to Charles and Hank. “May I see your previous papers, please?” They turned to Erik. He carefully unfolded a packet Hank and Charles recognised as their ownership papers.

“Here,” Erik said, shooting them an odd, apologetic glance when he placed them on the desk. Ororo’s eyes widened as she looked them over.

“These are slave rec-- Erik, where did you find them?” she asked, startled.

“Westchester,” Erik said tartly. “They didn't want to stay,” he added, voice thick with irony.

“Ah.” Ororo said nothing aloud, but her face expressed several interesting emotions. She drew a deep breath. Hank and Charles stared at her anxiously. She shot them a quick reassuring smile before pulling out a piece of paper from her desk.

“I see no problems with granting you both preliminary residence and citizen’s rights. What names shall I write down?”

“Charles Francis Xavier.” Charles let out a long sigh of relief.

“Hank McCoy.” Hank sagged as tension left his frame. Angel wrapped an arm around him.

“Because you’re not considered citizens in the country you just left, this is much easier,” Storm said, smiling. “Hiram can copy out your old papers for the records. Let me just--” She wrote quickly and elegantly across two embossed sheets of parchment. “These are your new temporary papers; you can present them to any who question your status, citizenship or right to remain.” Charles stared at the drying ink, dazed by hope and change. “You’ll receive official certificates as part of the ceremony once we’ve appeased the archives, but--”

“They look quite beautiful to me as they are,” Hank said, a little croakily. Charles silently nodded.

“Now,” Storm said. “I take it you have got the ceremonial objects? I’m fairly sure there’ll be no problem with processing--”

Erik’s jaw jutted. “There better not be.”

“So we can go straight to the presentation,” Storm finished smoothly.

“Presentation?” Charles asked, uncertain. “We were supposed to bring something?”

“Only yourselves,” Storm said. “Genosha offers you a cloak each, in token of the shelter you will receive as her citizens; your sponsors offer you blades to be used hereafter in your chosen country’s defence.”

“They get the sponsors to supply the cloaks though,” Sean said.

“Here.” Moira handed the bundle to Storm. She rose from her desk and shook out the first cloak. It hung in her hands, a fall of grey blue cloth a few shades darker than Erik’s eyes.

Formally, she said, “Genosha offers you her shelter, Charles Francis Xavier. Do you accept?” She wrapped the cloak around Charles’s shoulders.

“I - Yes. Yes, please,” he faltered, fingers gripping the edge of the fabric. Storm smiled. She turned to Hank, having to stretch up to cast the cloak over his shoulders. “Genosha offers you her shelter, Henry McCoy. Do you accept?”

“Oh, yes,” Hank breathed. Sean had to look away; the expressions on their faces were so… raw, so open.

“Blades?” Ororo raised one elegant eyebrow. Erik handed her two finely made daggers, sheathed in scarlet leather.

“Take this,” she instructed Charles, folding his hands around the dagger. “Always stand ready in Genosha’s defense, by blade or by word.” Charles nodded, silently. She winked at him, and turned to Hank. “Take this,” she said again. “Always stand ready in Genosha’s defense, by blade or by word.” Hank nodded gravely, hands trembling.

“Thank you, Ororo Storm,” Erik said, bowing his head; the other three echoed his thanks, while Charles and Hank tried to recover their composure.

“Oh, hey, here,” Angel flipped back Hank’s cloak to help him attach his new dagger to his belt. Sean turned to help Charles.

“If you give me your jackets, you can keep the cloaks on without getting too hot.” Moira couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

“And you want to do that.” Sean gave Charles’s belt a final tug. “Because quite a few people will buy you a drink. To welcome you.”

“NO time for drinking now, Sean,” Erik said. “We have to get them to the Palace.” Charles gulped.

“You-you do? But we’re not, we weren't--” Erik smiled at him with great affection.

“Charles,” he said, gently. “I’d like to introduce Raven to her rescuer. Don’t deny me that privilege.”

“Rescuer?” Storm asked, intrigued. “Sounds like a story there.”

“Oh there is,” Sean earnestly told her, while Erik began guiding Hank and Charles toward the door. “A really good one.”

“Captain LeBeau knows it,” Angel tossed over her shoulder. “Ask him.”

Charles groaned. Hank laughed, breathless and near-giddy.

Hiram blinked at them all as they went past; he hurried into the office they’d just left. Charles fidgeted with the fastening of his new cloak until Erik sighed and held out a silvery pin.

“Fix it with that,” he said, hammering down the stairs.

“Where did you…” Charles trailed off.

“Sixpence,” Erik said cheerfully. “I used to shape them like that all the time; it’s much harder to steal a pin than a penny.”

They stepped out into full daylight. Dana, the guard, whooped with delight when she saw the pair of them already cloaked and wearing their daggers.

“Welcome home, brothers!” she said delightedly, and leaned her spear against the wall just long enough to hug them both. Sean grinned, and Angel cackled. Erik’s eyes narrowed, until Dana returned to her post.

“Sir,” she said, neutrally. He nodded at her and turned away.

Softly, Hank asked, “What do we do now?”

Erik spun on his heel. “We do as we told the lady of the harbor,” he said, his steady gaze bracing and joyful. “We’re going to the Palace.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An audience with the Lady of Genosha.
> 
> In which Sean uses cooking as a metaphor, makes a death threat and I promise that the last of my OCS with NIght Vale names show up. Unless I need more OCs later.

The palace at the heart of the capital city of Genosha was a large building. A very large building. Hank craned his neck and gazed up. And up. The sentries pacing overhead along the roof walk, looked like a child’s toys. Charles’ hand stole into his. It was damp. Hank squeezed it lightly. 

“Why are you the nervous one?” Hank muttered as Erik and Moira talked with the guards at the gate. “You’re the one she owes a favour to.” Charles shook his head, jerkily.

“She’s a Princess. It won’t - it was so long ago, I don’t think she’ll remember me. I wish they weren’t so set on announcing it.”

“What happens if she doesn’t remember?” Sean asked, genuinely curious. “What’s so bad about reminding her?”

Charles swallowed. “You don’t get far in life by annoying powerful people,” he said quietly. “Or making them think they owe you something.”

“The Lady’s not like that.” Angel patted his hand, her voice soft but firm. “Really. We’re her Swords. We would know.”

“I just… it’s dangerous to be noticed,” Charles said. Normally Hank would agree with him, but -

“Being noticed by Genoshans worked out alright for us before,” he said, gently.

“Damn right it did,” Angel agreed. “And we’ll make sure it works out ok this time, too.” Charles blinked, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Come along,” Erik said briskly. “Sorry for the delay.” He smiled, ushering Hank and Charles into the Palace proper. 

There was a faint squawk from one of the guards.

“Hey! You need a guide - a monitor attending you to go beyond-!” 

Moira’s mouth twisted with a bare hint of distaste. “Steve Carlsberg, we are _Swords of the Lady_. We know where we’re going.”

“They aren’t.” Steve the guard pointed at Charles and Hank in their new cloaks. Sean sighed. Angel rolled her eyes. Erik frowned.

“If you feel that four Swords are an insufficient check on these two--” Erik put a reassuring hand on Hank and Charles’s shoulders - “Perhaps you should inform Logan his Palace Guards aren’t up to the job.” The guard paled, then urgently waved them into the Palace. Erik grinned.

“Come on,” he said, cheerfully. “If we hurry, we can swing by quarters and get our uniforms on.” Sean groaned. “Uniforms are part of the discipline and privilege of being a Sword, Sean.” 

 

They may have been a privilege, but the palace-wear uniforms of the Swords of Genosha were also clearly designed to make the wearers look good. Hank could tell. The brown jackets and trousers were trimmed with silvery stitching, and the high collars meant even Sean kept his head up as well as his back straight. Charles was looking uncertain again. Hank tried not to worry.

“You know,” Hank overheard Moira speaking gently to Charles. “We’re still the same people, and so are you, at heart. We won’t change all _that_ much.”

“I-” Charles bit his lip. “I know it’s stupid.” He dropped back from hurrying in Erik’s wake, to talk to Moira. “But it’s all - it just feels too good. Too lucky.”

“Like you’re going to wake up any second.” Hank said.

Charles nodded, shuddering. “Exactly.” He cocked an eye at his oldest friend. “You?”

Hank nodded.

“Oh yes.”

“Maybe your lives are just lumpy,” Sean said over his shoulder. Angel smacked him in the arm, but he kept talking, as the two former slaves stared at him. “Look, you were both slaves for a long time, right? And it was really, really.” Sean’s face screwed up with the effort. “Awful.”

“One way of putting it,” Hank murmured, touched and amused at Sean’s intensity. 

“And now you think this--” Sean waved his hands wildly, indicating the Palace around them, the back of Erik’s head, and apparently, his own foot. “--is too good for you.”

“Too good to be true, maybe.” Charles’ fingers twined nervously together.

“Well then. Your life didn’t get stirred enough, so it’s lumpy. Like porridge. You know, you showed me.” 

Sean smiled again. “But maybe nobody showed _your_ chef, so instead of stirring and getting a nice smooth life of not too bad and not too good, you get a terrible start finished off with lumps of awesome.”

“Sean.” Angel flared her wings, head tilting in some fascination. “Do you even listen to the noises your mouth makes?”

“Hey!” he protested.

“The chef of my life,” Charles said, intrigued. Hank was pleased to note his back had straightened, his smile now genuine. Hank himself felt better, too.

He said lightly, “I don’t think I could dream someone like you up, Sean. We must be awake.”

“Ah, Madame Josie,” Erik said ahead of them. “Will the Lady receive us now, or…”

“Oh, she said you’re all to go right in.” The elderly lady in waiting grinned. “Not every day the First Sword comes back from travels overseas with friends.” She smiled at Charles and Hank, welcomingly. Somehow, Hank managed to summon up an answering smile as he was bustled past her.

The room beyond was hung in blue tapestries worked in silver; the effect was cool, elegant and hinted at mysteries. Light poured from the windows high in one wall, splashing down over a large, sturdy desk piled with ordered books and papers and catching fire in the red hair of the woman who sat at it. Apart from that hair, she was as blue as her hangings.

“My Lady.” Erik went to one knee. Hastily, Hank and Charles followed suit, as did the other Swords.

“Rise,” said Raven, Lady of Genosha. “And tell me what brings you here, so soon after your arrival.” When Erik did not immediately stand, she made a little flicking gesture with one hand. Immediately Sean bounced to his feet, and dragged Charles up by one arm. Angel stood at the same time Hank did. She pushed Hank as Sean pulled at Charles, moving them to the foreground before the Princess’ desk. Raven leant her elbows on her desk and cupped her, chin, clearly intrigued.

“Highness,” Moira said, gravely. “We present these two men to you, whom we met on our journeys.”

“They helped save my life - and my Gift,” Erik rose to his feet.

“Westch-- Oh, not any more, I see.” Raven glanced at their new cloaks and daggers. Her face split into white-toothed smile of genuine pleasure. “Welcome to Genosha.”

“Also.” Though his voice remained steady, near as grave as Moira’s, a faint smile hovered about the corners of Erik’s mouth. “Lady, I can report that I have begun to fulfil the first task you laid on me.”

“First? I was nine--” Raven broke off.

“You said, you wished there was a way of rewarding the people who’d helped you in hiding,” Erik said, softly. “I -we - found one of them for you.” Charles gulped and wound his fingers in the edge of his cloak. Raven’s brow wrinkled, and she glanced from Charles to Hank, puzzled. 

“Charles.” Moira nodded at him, kind-eyed and encouraging. “Please show her your token.” Raven’s stare shot back to him as soon as Moira said his name, and intensified. Charles fumbled in his pocket, palms damp.

“I,” he said hoarsely. “I met a little boy, once, on the streets of my - where I grew up. H-he stayed with me for a bit.” Raven tensed. “He left me this when he left.” Charles held out the crest defensively. Raven stood and moved around the desk. She took Charles’ hand in hers, and gazed at Charles’s token where it lay in his palm, carried for so long, for a silent moment.

 

Raven lifted her gaze to Charles’, examining him. He nervously stared back. Nobody moved or spoke. Hank held his breath.

“I remember your eyes,” she said at last, quietly, and folded him into a tight hug. After a pause, Charles lifted his arms, stiffly, to return it. “Charles,” Raven said into his hair. “I missed you.” Her eyes misted over, and she smiled. “You were really going to be a good big brother once--”

“I just needed to do a little research.” Charles said, automatically, and smiled back at her.

Erik coughed. Charles woke to the fact that he stood in a palace, and that he had his arms wrapped around the _heir to the throne._ He loosened his hug, slightly, and Raven stepped away from him. Her eyes went to Hank, and then she turned back to Charles and said, teasingly, eyes bright, “So. Did you ever get a brother? Or other sibling?”

“I - your highness, I--” Charles said, almost at random. _She doesn’t know I was a slave,_ he kept thinking, over and over. _She doesn’t know._

He opened his mouth and blurted: “I - you should know that H-hank and I were slaves in Westchester, my l- your highness.” Raven’s smile dropped off her face.

“Charles Francis Xavier’s stepfather and step brother, the Markos, sold him on the open market when he was thirteen.” Erik spoke, very gently, from behind them.

“And Hank McCoy was sold, possibly by his parents, aged six.” Angel continued, equally soft-spoken. 

“What?” Raven sounded honestly shocked, not angry. 

Charles braced himself. Raven whirled back to the two nervous young men in their bright new cloaks and pulled them into another tight hug.

“You’ve come home, now,” she said. “Do you understand?” 

“Ah--” Hank said nervously.

Charles agreed automatically, “Yes ma’am.” Raven clicked her tongue.

“I mean that there will always be a place, for both of you, near me.” Raven’s tone went formal. “What was done for me, in the past, I can never repay. But what I can do for the both of you, I will.” The Lady of Genosha took a step back and let the two young men settle themselves, just a little. She turned to Erik.

“First Sword.” Erik straightened. “I thank you for this. You may each of you ask me for a boon, later, for finding me an old friend -” she grinned at Charles, “and a new.” She smiled at Hank, who smiled uncertainly back.

“Permission to take leave so’s I can go kill the Markos, my Lady?” Sean asked hopefully. Raven’s face darkened with anger.

“Denied. For now.” Raven’s mouth hardened with the curt negative. “Killing’s too good for them.” She softened slightly. “But a good try, anyway.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see how Charles and Hank settle into the Palace, and Alex makes an appearance.

Alex put his hands on his hips and stared at his new employers. He’d been looking after them barely two weeks, but he liked to think he had their measure already.

“You,” he said to Charles, firmly. “Drink the tisane for your headache before I lose my patience.” Charles blinked at him. “And you.” He turned to Hank, who nervously stepped backward. “Stop trying to evade the masseuse at the baths. I know Logan’s crazed training schedule; if you don’t get some help, you will both fall over on your noses and die all too soon.”

Charles drank the tisane. It did not taste disgusting.

“But - my gift - I don’t--” Hank started. Alex snorted at him.

“No,” he said, brightly. “After exercise, go bathe, after bathing, go get muscles rubbed. And put your glasses on, if you’re going to read.” He gave a firm nod, and left the matter there.

He knew - all the court knew - about the lives his two young employers had survived before escaping to Genosha, and although he wasn’t that good with feelings in general, Alex knew that while a certain level of bossy concern was good, there was a point beyond which he could not push.

Hank and Charles - he had been instructed to use first names, right from the beginning - liked it when Alex was stern with them, at least a little, because that reassured them that they were not crushing his soul or somesuch fool worry when one or other of them actually managed to express a need to him. But Alex also knew - the First Sword had explained this to him, in extreme detail - that he had to avoid giving too many orders, as well, because then his employers - he couldn’t even call them masters, the word meant such different things - would remember the bad things.

And if that happened because of Alex, he was reasonably sure that he would have a few bad things of his own to remember afterward, too. Meanwhile, Hank was looking at his pile of books hopefully and Charles was looking a little less pale as his headache receded. Hank reached to the leather pouch at his waist and balanced his glasses on his nose.

“Lunch.” Alex said decisively a few minutes later.

“What?” Charles asked, as Hank reached out to the books and took the one off the top.

“It’s food. A meal. You eat several a day.” Alex said. “Or you should. What would you like today?” And then he needed to kick himself, because choices were still difficult for both his employers if they affected other people’s behaviour.

“Er.” Charles dithered a bit, while Hank turned another page in his book. Alex repressed a sigh.

“Shall I just bring the usual, sir?” Charles flushed, nodding. “Look, boss,” Alex said, feeling the title come to his tongue with some relief. It was a good mix of deferential and slang. “You gotta get used to me calling you stuff like that; the Lady’s unveiling you both to the Court next week. There’ll be a lot of it, and not everyone’s as nice as me an’Logan.” He paused. “Please don’t tell Logan I said he was nice.”

“Alex, why won’t you train as a Sword?” Charles asked quietly. “You have the skills, and--” Alex shook his head.

“One, sir, don’t try and distract me from your lunch. Two, sir, Scott went to be a Sword, and it killed him. I've got Gabe to think about.” He still missed his elder brother. Gabe barely remembered him. Alex wasn't going to do to Gabe what Scott had done to him, just _disappear_ on his little brother.

“How is he settling in at school?”

Alex grinned at Charles. “Real well, thanks. You both stay here and I’ll bring lunch.” He shook a finger at them both. “No leaving til you’ve eaten!”

“Mmm,” Hank said, distractedly. Charles smiled; and the whole of his face was transformed by it. Alex thought he’d never know how such a sweet pair of people had managed to survive slavery, in Westchester of all places, and still be as kind and gentle as Hank - outside of the practice field - and Charles generally were.

Three paces beyond the doorway of their quarters, Alex met the First Sword of Genosha. He gulped, and bowed.

“Oh, relax, boy,” Erik Lehnsherr said, almost patiently. “I’m not about to eat you.”

“Unless I upset either of ‘em.”

Erik nodded. “Glad you remember it,” he rumbled.

“I’m just going to bring them lunch; may I bring you a portion also, my lord?” Alex asked politely. Erik nodded.

“Please.” He looked a little shifty then. “How’s it going?”

“Uh, well, I’m working on it.” Alex said frankly, glancing over his shoulder. No one within earshot, good. “I've started slipping the odd ‘Sir’ in, and they’re twitching less. I’m gonna try ‘my lord’ and maybe bowing next week.” They pair really had come on, since Alex had first met them, when they’d been practically clinging to each other, and Erik, and had flinched every time someone spoke to them using a title. Alex felt really pleased about that, oddly enough. Erik raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not joking.”

“No, sir.” Alex felt indignant. “I’m not. They - they’re good people. They deserve it. Not like some of the assholes I've worked for,” he finished in a mumble. Erik passed no comment on that, but his face softened into something that was alarmingly close to an affectionate smile. “I’ll just… go get lunch.”

Erik watched the servant scurry off, and wondered (again) how Charles had known so unerringly that a loyal heart lurked within the shabby, grubby insolent exterior. Employing Alex, when Raven had flat-out ordered them to have at least one servant in their new palace rooms, had been Charles’ idea. Erik still had no idea how he’d even met him. He’d just arrived one day to find his beloveds being roundly scolded by a skinny, freckled youth.

Charles had, apparently, not told some lurking stranger to go away, when he’d wanted to be alone, and Hank had not stopped reading long enough to get his eyes tested. They had looked sheepish, but unafraid, while Alex scolded them as if they were both small children, and dear to him - something Erik understood better once he heard about Gabriel. Alex managed to instruct, care for and obey both Hank and Charles, without resentment and without triggering either man’s problems with command.

For that, Erik almost forgave him his refusal of the offer of membership in the Swords. Almost. Alex had a Gift that would be incredible on a field of battle, or in a siege. He was sharp and quick and capable of learning. As a Sword, he would be invaluable. Yet he refused advancement to their ranks, in order to care for his family. Among whom he clearly had begun to number Hank and Charles. Erik smiled to himself, and strode forward to rap on the timber of the doorframe.

Charles came to open the door.

“I've come to lunch. May I c--”, Charles greeted Erik with a bright smile and cut off his words with a deep kiss, before tugging him inside.

“Hank, put down the books.” Hank waved a hand, in greeting. “Hank!” Charles snapped.

“Let him read.” Erik smiled to see them both surrounded by good things. Charles snorted, and flipped Hank’s ear. Hank started, came to himself, and stood to kiss Erik himself. Charles leaned against the wall next to the window.

Erik could tell Charles’ desk from Hank’s by the litter of paper on it. Hank’s was piled three feet deep in books from the royal library, on all subjects. It also stood next to the armour stands. He pulled out a chair, swung it around and straddled it.

“How did the practice this morning go?” Erik sank his chin onto his fist as he spoke. Hank made a face, as he shifted from his seat on the low chest.

“Logan still feasts on our sweat,” he said, dryly. “But he says I will be good enough to carry a sword soon.”

“How did meeting with Madame Grey and the doctor go?” Erik tried to conceal his intense concern; a glance from Hank showed him he had not succeeded. Charles looked at his hands.

“They think - they think I should be able to develop my shielding more.” He turned to look out at the flower garden far below.

“Oh.” Erik said, softly. “Is that - will that--”

“I don’t _want_ more!” Charles burst out. “I keep - I keep thinking it’ll hurt; I don’t want to see any more.”

Erik stood and approached Charles, who tensed when Erik put hands on his shoulders, but relaxed into the hug soon enough.

“You don’t have to,” he said, into Charles’ ear. Hank stood and joined them.

“You know, Charles.” Hank spoke softly. “It’s not like it was before.”

“I know.”

“People - people like us here. And they’re not pretending.” Hank smiled.

“I know.”

“He doesn't have to,” Erik said.

Hank blinked at him mildly. “No. But he should.”

Charles bit his lip.

“He should eat his lunch is what he should do,” Alex said from the doorway. “In fact,” he continued as he moved into the room, “you should all eat lunch.” He kicked the door shut with his foot and went to lay the heavy tray on the table. “Stuffed capons.” Alex went on, “herbed bread and honey cakes.” He moved plates and cups into place. “And white wine - yes, it’s watered--” he added as he caught Charles’ eye. “Come and eat before the butter melts.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YAY SEXYTIEMS!!
> 
>  
> 
> Because otherwise this story would only be 29 chapters long and that would distress me.

Erik stood at the door to Charles’s bedroom.

“I got your no--” His voice died in his throat as he took in more of what he was seeing. Soft lamplight gilded the high lime-washed walls, and made a dark mirror of the windows. The chest that held Charles’ clothes was shut, and had been dragged against the wall, away from the foot of the bed where it customarily rested. On the bed… On the bed, two nude young gods, pale skin oiled to gleaming by lamp flames, twisted against each other, slowly, lazily, in a sensually heated parody of wrestling.

Erik coughed. His trousers felt constrictive and unnecessary.

“I… I can come back later?” he offered. Instantly, the wresting stopped. Hank and Charles rolled apart and sat up, fixing Erik with eerily identical piercing stares.

“Don’t you _dare,_ ” Charles said sternly.

“We were waiting for _you._ ” Was Hank pouting? Erik swallowed. His mouth had gone oddly dry. He wasn't quite sure what had got into his lovers tonight, but whatever it was; he wished it could be bottled.

“We were talking.” Hank ran a hand over Charles’s thigh. “About you.” Charles lowered his eyes, almost demurely.

“We thought we hadn't paid enough attention to you. Erik.” Charles’ voice was soft, and throaty. Erik’s knees began to report in with strange sensations of weakness.

“You've been very busy,” Erik demurred, automatically. “And you don’t have to--” Charles slid off the bed and prowled up to him.

“This isn't about what we have to do.” He kissed Erik and walked him sideways to the chest.

“This,” Hank said, eyes gleeful, “is going to be about what we _want_ to do.”

“To you,” Charles clarified, pushing Erik down to sit on the chest. “If you’d like?” His eyes grew faintly worried and searching.

“Oh, I’d like. I’d definitely like. If you've both decided something, who am I to say no?” Erik smiled.

“You’re Erik,” Charles purred, retreating to the bed… “No,” he added, in silken command, as Erik shifted, preparing to follow. “You stay there. Every performance needs an audience. A silent audience.” Erik nodded dumbly.

“Don’t move.” Hank instructed, as he pulled Charles close.

Erik froze. Hank and Charles kissed for some minutes, slow and heated, hands wandering lazily over each other’s flesh. Erik shifted against the growing discomfort in his trousers, and stopped when Charles fixed him with a single midnight sapphire eye. Hank ran a hand down Charles’s chest, and grasped his slowly swelling cock.

“So pretty,” Hank said, softly. Charles’s head fell back, exposing the exquisite column of his throat, as Hank began to stroke, slowly and rhythmically.

Erik pressed a hand to the aching hardness in his own groin, and Hank stopped. Charles whimpered faintly.

“Ah - that counts as moving, I’m afraid.” Hank sounded apologetic, but firm. Erik bit back a whimper of his own, and an apology, while grabbing the edges of the chest with both hands. “Better,” Hank said, and resumed his ministrations on Charles’s very willing flesh. Charles groaned. Erik could only sympathize.

Hank pulled Charles’ climax from him in an almost painfully slow and gentle series of strokes, pausing to add more oil, and to angle them both so Erik - frozen into place on the chest, had the best view of proceedings. Charles panted and whimpered and gasped, before finally coming over Hank’s hand with a series of soft cries. His cheeks and chest pinked with the flush of his satisfaction, and he sagged into Hank’s embrace for a long moment.

Erik didn't move. He was aware of his own desire, gone beyond a mere physical need to an abstract burning that engulfed every part of him, including his mind. He licked dry lips and wondered if he dared hope for anything else, of if the blindingly beautiful sight of Charles reaching his peak was all he would be allowed tonight. Charles moved, a wicked grin lifting one corner of his mouth, as he slid off the bed and onto his knees. He flung a single scorching glance over his shoulder.

“Not moving. Very good.” Charles winked, and then wrapped his lips around Hank’s cock.

Hank stiffened, jerking as if he’d been stabbed, and inhaled a deep breath through his nose. Indistinctly, Charles chuckled. Hank shivered. Charles shifted, slightly, and the lamplight fell across his back in a glorious spill, turning the old whipping scars into golden mystery. Erik watched the muscles shift under that skin as Charles took Hank deeper into his mouth.

Hank moaned, hands coming up to cradle Charles’ head. Erik was not entirely sure he was still breathing. He felt light-headed. Charles moved faster than Hank had, and soon he was humming contentedly as Hank moaned and spent himself down Charles’ throat. Charles swallowed, catlike, almost purring with satisfaction. Distantly, Erik heard himself groan at the sight.

Both of them immediately fixed their gazes on him, like birds of prey acquiring a target. Erik held himself perfectly still, and tried to breathe. He had no idea what was coming next but he hoped - oh, he hoped! - that it might be him.

“You didn't move,” Hank observed, voice still throaty with satisfaction.

“Well done, you,” Charles added, bright and smug.

“I,” Erik said. _“Please,”_ he blurted, and stopped, knowing he hadn't been supposed to talk. He felt foolish, and clumsy, as he had not in this - or any other area - since he’d been a stripling.

Charles’ smile softened, and he beckoned. Erik rose from his seat on the chest. Hank clucked his tongue.

“Erik.” he said gently, when Erik looked at him in alarm “You’re overdressed.”

“We can help with that.” Charles moved forward determinedly. Hank followed him. In mere moments, it seemed, Erik was naked, and being guided towards the bed.

“Hold on here.” Gently, Charles wrapped Erik’s fingers around the cool smooth wooded slats of the headboard. “No,” he added, as Erik shifted. “On your side.”

“Can I talk?” Erik murmured, complying.

“Try not to use words,” Hank rumbled. Erik grasped the headboard with grim determination. Charles and Hank glanced at each other across his body, and grinned.

“Other noises are perfectly acceptable,” Charles said, smiling. And then they began. Charles took Erik’s front. Hank took his back. They kissed, and licked, and sucked, and nipped at Erik’s shoulders, his chest and back, gradually working their separate ways down his body.

Erik’s shivers and shaking became continuous, and he moaned as the delicious sensations chased down his nerves. Dimly, he thought he heard Hank laugh, but he was distracted by Charles nosing at his belly button and the flat planes of his stomach beneath. Erik’s moans became a shout when Hank set his teeth in Erik’s buttock; but he wasn't precisely complaining.

Hank withdrew his teeth, anyway. The slats under Erik’s hands creaked and protested his tightening grip. Hank lifted Erik’s leg; Charles’s hand rose up to meet it. They splayed Erik open for their pleasure, and he loved them for it. Erik felt Hank pull his cheeks gently apart, just as Charles stooped and engulfed Erik’s aching cock in his wide, warmly generous mouth. Erik yelled again, high and hoarse and wordless. He could feel Hank laughing against his most private spaces.

And then Hank began to lick, swirling his tongue around Erik’s pucker, warming and wetting it, before investigating further. Erik jerked helplessly, a fish on their unbreakable line.

“Sorry,” he panted to Charles. “Sorry.” Hank pressed firmly between Erik’s balls and the hole his tongue was exploring, and Erik jerked again. Charles hummed his forgiveness.

Erik’s climax swept across him like an earthquake, like a thunderstorm, breaking him apart at the seams and re-forging both his body and the world beyond. He might have screamed. He wasn't sure. As the world dipped and reeled around him, and his vision broke up into sparking dark stars, Erik couldn't really be sure of anything. His chest heaved as he fought for breath. He let things recede a little, as the aftershocks rolled through him.

“You - you can let go of the bed now,” Charles said, from somewhere far away. Erik nodded. He could? Good to know.

“Erik?” That was Hank. And someone was fumbling with his hands, opening his fingers, and moving them.

“Mmm.” Erik opened one eye. Did Hank look worried? Why? He, Erik, felt fantastic. Everything was fantastic. He smiled.

“Love you,” he said, a little hoarsely. “Love you both. So much.” He stuck his arms out in wordless entreaty.

Charles came to him first, Hank following into Erik’s embrace shortly after.

“So much,” Erik assured them both, and closed his eyes.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Epilogue.

It seemed strange how much more reassuring being in the private sitting room of the heir to Genosha became, when the alternative was taking part in a soiree that most of the entire Court would be attending, Charles thought. But then, the company - Erik, Angel, Moira and Hank; as well as the Lady herself - might account for it. Hank twitched at his sleeves, absently fretting with the spill of fine lace. Charles ran a finger round his collar.

“Stop fretting.” Raven smiled warmly. “You’ll both be fine.” Hank mutely nodded. Charles bit his lip.

“Stop that,” Erik said. “You’ll hurt yourself.” He put a hand on both their shoulders and shook the pair lightly.

“Erik!” Angel snapped. “If you rumple either of ‘em _now_ , I swear to God!” Erik stepped back, hands raised in placation.

“Maybe we like being rumpled,” Charles said, with a faint gleam in his eye. Erik swallowed, hard.

“You can like it all you like,” Angel cheerfully retorted. “But you don’t get to look rumpled until after the audience.”

“Highness,” Hank appealed. “Do we really need to be presented to the Court?”

Raven nodded. “It’s boring, but this is the quickest way of telling everyone who you both are and what you mean to me--”

“Us,” Erik added, softly. Raven flicked a glance at him. 

“And you get to meet the Court together,” she said. “The focus will at least be split between you.”

“Also, the Westchestrian Ambassador will likely be there,” Moira stated, calm in the face of Hank and Charles’ startled glances. “By seeing you first with the Lady of Genosha, as her willing and welcome citizens, we present him with a _fait acompli_ that he will have to swallow, at least in public, hereafter.”

Charles swallowed. A thought struck him. “I - will there be other Westchestrians there?”

“Some,” Raven said. “But more of us.”

“Ah, my lady - has, is anyone going to talk about our path here?” Hank asked, his fingers twining in his lap.

“You mean, the slavery?” Raven said. “I think a lot of people will know already. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, surviving that.”

“Ah, no, that is, thank you,” Hank stammered. “But, legally, under Westchestrian law--”

“Which does not and never will apply here--” Raven interrupted, yellow eyes blazing.

“In Westchester, slaves cannot be freed,” Charles said, softly. Raven drew a deep calming breath, and nodded. Charles continued, “If - anyone who sees an escaping slave, they can seize and sell them: back to their owners or to anyone else.”

“We’re not in Westchester,” Erik said, iron in his voice. “And you didn’t--” He broke off as his Lady spoke.

“My father holds his hand in protection over every Genoshan citizen.” Though quiet and controlled, Raven’s voice rang with a certainty as iron as Erik’s. “Any attempt to kidnap, harass or molest any Genoshan citizen, let alone a hero of the realm or my private secretary will be dealt with… severely.”

“As severely as I dealt with Sebastian Shaw,” Erik said.

“ _You_ dealt?” Moira inquired, cool and amused. Erik flushed.

“We,” he said, ducking his head in apology.

“There’s still no trace of his accomplices,” Raven said. Charles looked questioning. Hank silently shook his head.

“Later,” he mouthed at his friend.

“Lady Frost’s a telepath,” Angel said, and her wings shook. “Likely she got away by wiping herself from the minds of anyone who saw her.”

“She’s on the run,” Erik reassured her. “Her estates are seized; her wealth frozen - I doubt she’ll be anywhere in the country by now.”

“In any case, she certainly won’t be present this evening.” Angel fell quiet.

“But we must,” Moira said gently. “Try not to be so nervous - you’ll end up enjoying yourselves, I’m sure.”

“Right,” Charles said, and squared his shoulders. Hank held his head up.

“Come on.” Raven curved her arms out as if to gather and herd them along, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth, her eyes glinting with anticipation. “Let’s go.”

 

Near the audience chambers they had to separate. Raven would enter first, followed by everyone except Erik, Hank and Charles. Alex would wait until the crowd had all arrived and then open the doors to them, creating a quietly noticeable entrance. 

“I can get you both a drink,” Erik offered while they waited in a sideroom. “If you think it will help.”

“I… don’t think it will,” Hank said.

“You’re more relaxing than alcohol.” Charles grinned. “And we already have you.”

Erik smiled back, quick and pleased. “In whatever way you’d like.”

“Really? I thought we weren’t allowed rumpling?” Hank said, a look in his eye that turned Erik’s mouth dry. He swallowed.

“Rumpling later,” he said firmly.

“That had better be a promise,” Charles whispered, leaning close to breathe gently into his ear, and Erik shivered.

“Stop that,” he said. “I can’t attend a soiree with--”

“Both swords on display?” Charles moved back. Briefly, Erik glared at him.

“You are devious men,” he said, not for the first time, before changing the subject. They both smirked. Erik stopped himself from charting all the beautiful dimples thus displayed. He started his speech

“You have a new country, a new life--”

“Lives--”

“Thank you, Hank.” Erik kept going, “New lives ahead of you. This evening is the first of many. So prepare to savour it; it’s only the next in a long line of triumphs for you both.” 

Hank kissed him. If Erik wondered how long either of them would be satisfied with him, once they found their feet or tried their wings in the Court, he didn’t say so. He managed to thrust the wistful little thought down, under his admiration for all the ex-slaves had done and how they had grown since he’d met them. Charles joined in the kissing.

“Beautiful, brave, devious men,” Erik murmured, at last.

The carved wooden doors into the audience hall creaked, and began to open, letting in a spill of colours, sounds and smells.

“A-are we ready for this?” Hank said. 

“Let’s find out,” Charles answered, eyes bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is another story in Token AU, dealing with Charles and Hank's settling in to Genoshan Court life. But that's not starting until I have a WIP or two finished. 
> 
> Therefore:  
> Which of my current WIPS (Other than the third Token story) do you need to know what happens next the most, please?


End file.
